A Widening Circle
by Brighid45
Summary: Final story in the Treatment 'verse. Jason's home from school...is House helping or hindering his journey toward becoming a physician? NOTE: this series is AU to the canon storyline after the S5 finale 'Both Sides Now'. OC romance, humor, drama, some angst. Now revised and updated.
1. Chapter 1

_(Doctor Gregory House and other canon characters featured in this work of fiction belong to NBC/Universal and David Shore. Original characters are my creation. I make no money from writing these stories, it's done for pure enjoyment. All literary passages, quotes and song lyrics are used without permission; I do not own them or make money from using them.)_

"_I live my life in widening circles that reach out across the world." _

― _Rainer Maria Rilke_

_Approximately sixteen years later . . . _

_May 5th_

It was a nice spring day, warm with plenty of sun and a soft breeze coming through the car window. Jason yawned and stretched a bit, glanced out at scenery he knew well but hadn't seen in some time. He'd missed the last two holidays—his choice, but not really a choice at all, as it had turned out. _More like avoidance_, he thought, and pushed the knowledge away.

He drove through the village now, the few storefronts dark, though the lights were on in Rick's bakery. Jason contemplated fresh doughnuts and a large coffee and sat up a bit. He took the car off autopilot and back to manual, pulled into the closest parking spot, shut off the engine, stretched, snagged his travel mug and got out.

Rick was behind the counter as always; a little more wrinkled, and a few pounds heavier, but still the same smile. It widened as Jason came through the door. "Hey Jay, good to see you. It's been a while, man."

Jason nodded. "Rick." He realized some conversation was expected. He was back in a small town now, where everyone knew each other and took the time to chat. "How's it going?"

"Well you know, can't complain. Wouldn't do no good anyway." Rick wiped his hands on his apron. "Kids are doin' okay, wife's got a cold, business is pretty decent all things considered. How about you? You're outta school now, right?"

Jason felt some bitter amusement at the question. "Yeah."

"Back to stay for a while?" Rick gave him a speculative look. "Gonna hang up your shingle?"

"We'll see." The future loomed before him, full of uncertainty. He pulled his thoughts away from the problems he'd struggled with since he'd left Boston. "Need a dozen mixed to take home. And a coffee." He set his travel mug on the counter.

Rick took the hint. "You got it. I just put the first batch out, they're still warm." He turned to get a box and Jason relaxed a little. If he talked to anyone about the last week's events, it would be Dad first, and maybe House.

A few minutes later Rick handed Jason the box and his mug. "It's good to have you back," he said. The quiet sincerity in his tone was something of a surprise.

"Thanks." He wanted to say it was good to be home, but the words stuck in his throat. "Say hi to the family for me."

"Will do. Don't be a stranger." Rick gave him a smile and moved away to refill the pastry case as Jason slipped out into the new morning.

The coffee was just as he remembered it; strong, a little harsh, but delicious. Mom would scold him for it as she undoubtedly had breakfast ready by now, but he needed the taste, if not the caffeine. He'd managed to doze a little while the car autopilot navigated I-95 through the night, but he doubted he'd get any sleep for a while once he was home.

He drove through the sleepy village, past the post office and the feed store, the barber shop where Gordy's grandson Andy worked part-time, and the library. It all looked smaller, more run-down and shabby than he remembered. But the new sunshine was glorious on the mountains and the deep green of the trees, and the air smelled of fresh-cut hay and manure and growing things. He'd been away long enough to notice the change from the stink of the big city and hospitals.

Home looked the same as it always did. Mom had the first pots of basil and mint out on the step, along with her favorite nasturtiums. Jason pulled the car into the side yard, shut it down, and took a deep breath. He closed his eyes, aware he was scared. He remembered his first time here, a neglected, abused kid, oblivious to the complete switch of fortune ahead. This felt a little like that, but now he'd known for years that whatever happened, this was home, and no one would ever turn him away. He sighed softly, opened his eyes and got out.

He went around to the back door, mainly to see if Mom was in the garden. She'd sent him plans for this season's planting, though he hadn't been able to work on it with her. Now though, he'd probably spend at least the summer weeding and involved in harvest and preservation, among other things.

She was in the garden, relaxed and comfortable in the beat-up old kitchen chair they'd trash-picked years ago. It was clear she'd worked on some cultivation in one of the beds, probably the one for root vegetables, if the spading pitchfork propped against a stake was any indication. She sat facing the sun, eyes closed.

"Second breakfast is ready any time you want it," she said in the wry, affectionate tone she reserved for House. "You're up early this morning."

"Mom," Jason said. A reluctant smile tugged at his mouth as she straightened and opened her eyes. And then she came to him, to envelop him in a hug that felt so good he had to clamp down hard on a sudden urge to cry.

"I was beginning to think you weren't ever coming home," she said after a while. The happiness in her soft voice made him feel ashamed, and sad.

"I wanted to surprise you," he said, and rested his cheek against her curls. She gave him a little squeeze.

"Come on," she said finally. "You've had a long drive from Boston, you must be hungry and tired."

He couldn't help but laugh. "Now I know I'm home. You're already taking care of me."

Mom swatted his butt gently. "Of course I am. Let's go."

The doughnuts were served up alongside eggs, sausage and fresh coffee. Jason took down some plates and paused, as he struggled with an odd sense of both panic and relief.

"The last couple of weeks have been bad, haven't they?" Mom put a hand on his back. "You've lost weight."

"I—I can't . . ." His hands tightened on the plates. He made a conscious effort to relax them. "I can't talk about it yet."

Mom moved her hand to his shoulder and gave him a light squeeze. "All right," she said after a moment. She sounded worried, but her touch was as reassuring as always. "Let's have breakfast. Dad will be back from town shortly."

They ate at the breakfast bar as they'd always done during his high school days. The sunshine in the window, the radio on the NPR station, the smell of hot fat in the pan and coffee . . . He felt the knot in his gut loosen a little.

"How was the drive down?" Mom asked, and sipped her tea. "I hear they're doing a lot of construction work, it must have been slow going." She took a doughnut. "Your bedroom's ready for you. Did you get any sleep last night at all?"

Jason was spared from an answer by the sound of the back door code punched. A moment later a voice emerged from the mudroom, loud and aggrieved. "You could try dumping your damn filthy boots someplace besides right in front of the door."

Mom glanced at Jason. She winked. "Good morning Greg!" she called, her tone sunny as the new day outside. "Second breakfast is ready!"

A moment later House emerged from the mudroom. "Idiot rednecks . . ." His voice trailed off when he saw Jason; his eyes widened, and he darted a look at Mom which held equal parts alarm and concern. And then it was gone. He came into the kitchen, shucked off his jacket, dumped it on a stool, and went to the coffeemaker.

"So junior's back," he said, and grabbed a mug. "About time." He poured coffee, stirred in three heaping teaspoons of sugar, and looked over the doughnut selection.

"My lease wasn't up until the end of April," Jason said, and winced at how defensive he sounded.

"Do I care? It was just a general comment on local conditions."

"I see 'local conditions' haven't changed. Still getting a free breakfast while you track mud into Mom's kitchen." It was a weak riposte but it was all he could manage at the moment.

"You're one to talk, coming back to—"

"What is going on?" Mom's quiet words held a warning: _don't lie to me_. Jason felt a jolt of dread go through him like a lightning bolt.

"You tell me, I just got here," House said. His tone was light, but Jason saw his hand tighten on the mug handle.

"Both of you are behaving like guilty parties. In fact everyone's been acting weird for the last month, even Gene . . ." She fell silent for a moment, then said "What aren't you telling me?"

He'd known this moment would arrive, had known there was no way to escape it, and still he felt trapped. "Mom, there's nothing—"

"No, I'm not imagining it, don't even go there! I want the truth!"

"I think I hear the office calling me," House said, and grabbed a doughnut. "See you later."

"_Sit down_." Oh, she was mad now, no doubt about it. "Someone better start talkin'." Jason dared a glance at her. Mom gave him a level stare. All the humor was gone from her features; she looked grim and worse, worried. He took a deep breath.

"I—I cheated."

His words fell into the bright kitchen like stones through a glass window. Utter silence followed. House moved to a stool, perched on it like a naughty kid ready for any chance to escape. "Of course you'd find the worst way to say it," he muttered.

"Is there a _best_ way to tell your mother you cheated?" Mom snapped. She ran a hand through her curls, a sure sign of deep distress, and took a breath, as she tried to calm down. "All right—okay. I'm—I'm listening."

"I didn't cheat on my exams," Jason said when he could speak past the lump in his throat. He'd heard the echo of disappointment in Mom's voice, the pain she couldn't quite hide, and knew he would never forget it, ever. "It—it wasn't that. I just . . . I . . . I wrote papers."

"Did you at least make some decent money?" House wanted to know. Mom swung her gaze to him. Another silence fell.

"You told him about this," Mom said at last.

"Yeah, I did." House glared at her, defiant, anxious. "So what? You went to school, you know it's no big deal."

"It is to me." Mom's voice trembled. "I don't expect anyone to be perfect, but this is—this is choosing to do something wrong. You can call it tradition, you can say it goes on all the time. I don't care, it's _wrong_."

"I used the money to pay my rent," Jason said in an attempt to find some way out, though he knew it was hopeless. Still, he had to try. "I used it for food. Not stupid sh—things like parties."

Mom looked out the window. "If you needed help you could have called us," she said. "We told you that from your first day in college."

"You're already paying for everything else! I just wanted—" Jason stopped, went on. "I wanted to—contribute. To help out. You and Dad, you're paying off the loans and I know it's tough for you, it's been tough for years but you never say anything—" His throat closed up.

"See? Not so bad," House said. Mom got to her feet.

"You and me," she said to House, "in the office, right now. You," she said to Jason, "wait here for your dad, and then we'll talk about this, and you will tell me _everything_, do I make myself clear? Every single damn thing you haven't told me for the last however long this has been going on. And don't you even dare to sit here thinking up a story, because I'll know you're lying and you will only make it much worse for yourself."

Jason nodded and lowered his gaze to the floor as Mom went to the door. House got up reluctantly to follow her. "Nice going," he growled, and stumped out of the kitchen.

[H]

_Damn. Damn, damn and double fuck-damn_. Greg follows his shrink into the office with the greatest reluctance. He must be senile to allow himself to be trapped into a confrontation this easily, and not think of a way out.

"Siddown," Sarah says. She pushes a chair at him and assumes her usual place at her desk. He slowly perches on the seat, ready to take off. "Stop acting like I'm gonna beat you and relax."

"Maybe I don't feel like playing Twenty Questions," he snaps. His hands tremble just a little—but hey, they do that all the time now. It annoys the hell out of him when he tries to pick notes on his guitar or play piano.

"You don't have to if you tell me exactly what's been going on." Sarah gives him that level stare he dreads. "So start talkin'."

"You presume I have intimate knowledge—"

"Greg." That flat tone tells him her capacity for bullshit and lies is a lot smaller than he'd like. "Don't. Just—just don't. I want to know what happened."

"The damn kid told you what happened. He wrote papers. Big deal." He slouches in his chair like an eighth-grader hauled into the principal's office for a fight in the cafeteria.

"Apparently the committee thinks it's a big deal. Jason's been working hard to get that cardiovascular disease fellowship and now—" She stops, lowers her head, and takes a long deep breath. "Tell me what the hell went on."

It is the intimation of patient resignation in her tone that irritates him even more. "So I told the kid about writing papers. Don't tell me you never encountered that side of college life. When you were in school you knew who wrote the best papers and how much they charged per page, everyone knew." He wants to get up, pace, escape.

"Yes, I knew." Sarah won't look at him. "It made me angry because I was half-killing myself trying to write papers and study while people were handing in work they hadn't even read through, and getting better GPAs than me."

"You—it wasn't that hard for you," Greg says in disbelief. "You're too damn smart."

"It _was_ hard! No one ever taught me how to read or write, the teachers in grade school knew my brothers and thought I was the same as them, so they never bothered . . . I had to figure things out for myself!" She scrubs a hand over her face and looks at him, and he sees tears in her eyes, dammit. "College was hell. If Prof hadn't been there to show me how to study and write papers I'd probably be scrubbin' dirty plates and screwin' the owner in some greasy spoon in Tulsa just to make my drug money."

They sit there in silence for a few moments. "The kid needed cash to make rent. One of the guys who agreed to split the cost took off and everyone had a bigger share," Greg says at last. "Once he got into med school there was no way he could work, you know that. As he just told you, he didn't want to come to you and Goldman for more money. So I told him about writing papers." It feels like the words are pulled out of him by force, like abscessed wisdom teeth.

"You could have suggested tutoring," Sarah says quietly. "Or better yet, told him to come to us—"

"Were you not listening when he said he didn't want to hit you up for extras?" He can't handle this, he has to get up and move around or he'll go apeshit. "You're really gonna come down on him for wanting to be independent—"

"_No!_" Sarah glares at him. She looks so distressed and he can't stand it. "But I don't want him—" She stops and color rushes into her cheeks. Greg feels his gut tighten as realization kicks in.

"You don't want him to be like me," he says.

"I want Jason to be himself."

"Nice answer. So all this time you've had a bug up your ass about how I do things." He rests a hip on Goldman's desk and watches her. The shake in his hands is worse now. "Good to know."

"You were expelled from two medical schools for cheating, and you did it just because you could," Sarah says. Her tone is neutral; she feels her way carefully now, and that scares him even more than if she just yelled at him some more. "You went on to become one of the world's best doctors—"

"Only one of the best? I'm hurt," he mocks. She ignores him.

"—and I want Jason to learn from you—"

"But only the morally-approved bits and pieces you think I can offer him, yeah yeah, I get it!" He paces across to the window, looks out on the beautiful day. "You approved my mentoring him but you never put any restrictions on my methods—"

"You chose to cheat because it was such a great way to flip the bird at every authority figure in the school!" Sarah says sharply. "As a mentor you have some responsibility to—"

"As a mentor I have the job of getting your kid through med school and residency and into a fellowship that will actually show him how to be a goddamn fucking real doctor and not some homonculus in a lab coat who hands out the pills the drug reps give him and overbooks because he's got a shitload of student loans to pay off!"

"So it's all right to cheat, to lie, to do whatever it takes to get what you want?" Sarah's voice is shaking now.

"_Yes!_ To get the diagnosis you use whatever works! You break into the patient's house to find the truth of how they live, you run a test everyone says is pointless, you have your minions talk to people outside the family to get more bits of the truth—you do what it takes!"

"But that's diagnosis, it's not school! What you had Jason doing is helping people get into the system who have no idea how the fuck to be a doctor and don't care! They'll cheat all right, but it won't be to help a patient!" Now Sarah's on her feet too, arms folded. "It's wrong and you know it!"

They stare at each other across the room for what seems like an eternity. Then he goes to the door, wrenches it open, and leaves her behind, unwilling, unable to hear another word.

Jason is still in the kitchen at the sink, as he puts clean dishes in the rack to dry. He turns when Greg comes in.

"Come over later," Greg says to forestall the long discussion he knows is inevitable. "I can't talk to you here."

"Give Mom a chance to cool down," Jason says. He is pale, his dark gaze anxious. "You know how she is when she gets mad."

"Call first," is all he says, and then he's down the steps and through the mudroom, out into the sunshine. He starts for home, stops, blinks in the strong light, and turns just a little. Sarah stands at the office window. Her expression is unreadable, impassive. They stare at each other for a breath; he feels that pain deep within that he knows all too well, borne of an unwelcome mixture of guilt, shame and anger, and hurt too. He turns away and walks down the lane, and refuses to think of anything except the walk home.


	2. Chapter 2

Jason heard them argue in the office over him; he heard the raised voices, the silences full of hurt and recrimination. He couldn't bear the sound of it, couldn't bear to wait and do nothing. It took all of five minutes to find his link, stuffed in one of the side pockets of his duffel. He didn't wear it during work hours, a habit he didn't want to break, though right now it seemed pointless. He put the link in his ear for a private call and said "Prof's personal line." He knew Gordon was somewhere in the south of France by now, probably at a friend's place, or his favorite hotel.

"Jason," Prof said a moment later. That warm, resonant voice was a bit dimmed and held a slight tremor, but it could still convey affection and delight. "How lovely! I was just thinking of you this morning, dear boy. You're at home now, I see. How did finals go, everything all right?"

"Well . . . not exactly," Jason said with some reluctance. "I . . . um, let's just say some unpleasant facts have come to light and it's causing problems."

"Unpleasant facts," Prof said slowly. "So this is in the nature of a professional call."

"Yeah, it is. I was gonna call anyway," Jason said in perfect truth, and winced because it sounded like a lie.

"Of course." Prof was polite but Jason knew he didn't buy it.

"You don't have to come back—we could do a 3D."

"My darling boy, this hotel barely has hot and cold running water, let alone the capacity for holographic imaging. I don't think they've updated their wi-fi in a good ten years." Prof sighed. "The whole point of coming here was to get away from technology . . . ah well, no matter. I know you wouldn't call unless the situation was dire." This was more of a question than a statement, and Jason was quick to reply.

"It's—it's dire, yeah." His heart came up into his throat suddenly, so that the words he wanted to say stuck there for a moment. "They're fighting over me, over what I did. It's . . . it looks bad."

"Oh, my dear boy," Gordon said after a moment. He sounded sad now, and worried. "I shan't ask you what's wrong, not here. Talk to your parents and apprise me of any updates. We'll get some sort of meeting set up if all parties are agreeable."

"Okay," Jason said, on a mixture of both relief and anxiety. "Thanks, Prof. I really appreciate this."

"Well you'd better, you young jackanapes," Prof said, but his affection shone through. "Really, I just don't know what this world is coming to. At any rate I'll talk to you later, here's hoping."

Jason ended the call as Dad came in the door, his lean features creased in a wide smile. "Hey, son," he said, and came forward to offer a hug. "You didn't send the car back, are you planning to stay for a while this time?"

"She knows," Jason said. Dad went still.

"Damn," he said after a few moments. "I'll go see Mom." He put a hand on Jason's shoulder. "Get settled in. This is likely to be a long day. You might as well take care of things now while you have the chance."

His room was the same as always, a fact he'd always found comforting in the past. Now though, he saw only a place that hadn't changed in years—the same bed and chair, the fireplace-cleaned since his last visit, and stacked with wood; nights still got chilly on a regular basis-his old bat and mitt, some framed reports from high school days. _He_ had changed, though; maybe . . . maybe he didn't belong here now, after what he'd done. Maybe he'd be better off to go with the car, and whoever might rent it, back to Boston . . . He jumped as the link chimed with the tone he'd assigned to House. "Yes?"

"Don't go anywhere," House said. "I know you're about to fly the coop. It's an emotional response. Stop feeling and start thinking." And he was gone. Jason drew in a shaky breath. Suddenly he knew an overwhelming sense of loss. He clung to House's words, tried to make sense of them. Slowly he sat on the bed, felt the slight sag in the mattress, and reached back to open the window. Sunshine fell into the room, accompanied by the smells and sounds of home. Jason shoved his duffel onto the floor with his foot, lay back and stretched out, turned his face into the light.

_Stop feeling and start thinking_. Good advice, but difficult to accomplish. Still, he did his best while he tried keep his mind from images of Mom and Dad in the office, locked in verbal battle. He closed his eyes against the bright sunlight. Two minutes later he was asleep, as his exhaustion caught up with him at last.

He woke when someone shook his shoulder. He came wide awake immediately, used to five-minute power naps stolen during long hours on the ward. "Family meeting in the living room," Mom said. Jason squinted at her, then looked at the window. The sun had moved to the other side of the house; he'd been out for a couple of hours. He sat up, swung his legs around, and kept his gaze on the floor. He knew what was coming. It didn't take long.

"_Why_?" Mom said. He could barely hear her. "_Why_, Jason? How could you think—" She stopped, went on. "I don't understand why you did this."

Jason scrubbed a hand over his face. Words trembled on the tip of his tongue; he bit down on them. To say them would hurt his mother deeply. "I called Prof," he said at last. "He's willing to sit in with us. I think we need his help."

"After you talk with Dad and me first," Mom said. The steel in her voice told him she wouldn't compromise. "Let's go."

"Mom." Jason ran fingers through his hair and remembered he hadn't washed it for a couple of days now. "I know you're really angry. I also know you love me. It . . . it would be . . . it would help to hear that right now."

Mom stood there for a moment. Then she reached out, took his hand in hers. "Of course I love you, and I always will," she said quietly. "I wouldn't be so mad at you otherwise." She gave him a little tug. "Come on, let's go."

Dad waited on the couch. He didn't look thrilled to be there, but when Mom sat down it was next to him. Jason took House's easy chair.

"I have some questions," Mom said. "Dad's told me the basics. Now I want particulars from you." She paused. "House was the one who told you about this?"

"Yes. But I already knew about it."

"When?"

Jason sighed softly. "First year of med school."

"Have you been writing papers since then?" Mom sat up a bit.

"Yes. On and off, not the whole time."

"And did you charge money for those papers?"

"Yes." It was more complicated than a simple answer, but he didn't feel like a detailed explanation he didn't think either parent would hear, at least they wouldn't today, while emotions ran high.

Mom spoke again. "You've been earning a salary since you got your residency. Did you continue to write papers after you started getting a paycheck?"

Jason looked at the floor. "Sometimes, yes."

There was a brief silence. "You told me you used the money you made to pay for your rent and food," Mom said finally. "What happened to your salary? If you were having trouble covering your expenses you should have said something to us."

Jason pushed away a flare of anger. Hadn't he already said he didn't want to ask them for more? He glanced at Dad, who said nothing but gave a slight nod. Jason's heart sank. So he had to reveal that secret too. "I gave Dad most of my pay to put toward the student loans."

The silence was much longer this time. "And neither one of you saw fit to let me in on this little plan."

"Because you would have said no!" Jason said. He knotted his hands together between his knees; he felt about twelve years old, and hated it. In fact he hated this whole procedure. "You won't let me help out, you're both having to work too much—"

"That's our decision to make," Mom said. "Or at least I thought it was until everyone decided to go behind my back." Her voice shook, and Jason realized she fought not to give in to tears.

"Mom, you wouldn't even discuss it, you—you just told me how it would be, and it's meant you and Dad have struggled for years now. It's not right!" His voice got louder, but he didn't bother to control it. "I can help!"

"Your job is to be the best doctor you can be, and you let us worry about the rest!" Mom said. It was clear she was really angry now, as well as deeply distressed. "You can't do that if you're worrying about money, Gene and I went through that when we were in school and it made things incredibly difficult for both of us!"

"It's my education—_all_ of it," Jason said, in one last atttempt to get through to her. "Not just the studying, the finances too. I'm willing to take on my debts, Mom."

"Sarah," Dad said quietly. "It's right that he wants—"

"_No_." Mom stared at the floor. "Y'all can call Prof and do your best to throw emotional blackmail at me, it won't work. I'm not changing my mind."

Dad passed a hand over his face. For a moment he looked every year of his age. "Go ahead and make the call," he said quietly to Jason.

"What's the point? We'll just be wasting his time and ours." Jason got to his feet. "I'm moving out to the barn until I have to go back to Boston for the disciplinary meeting."

Mom looked up. "You don't have to do that."

Jason said nothing in reply, just went to his bedroom, grabbed his duffel and headed out.

The afternoon was warm and sunny; birds called in the woods and new green leaves rustled in the soft breeze. Jason saw it all as he strode down the lane, but his thoughts were occupied elsewhere. When his link beeped he growled under his breath. "_What?_"

"Hello to you too, sunshine," Mandy said. "Heard you were back in town." She sounded amused.

"Yeah, I'm back," Jason snapped. He'd had enough of being polite, even if it was an innocent party on the other end of the conversation.

"What's wrong?" The amusement had disappeared, replaced by genuine concern. "Jason, what is it?"

"It's . . . it's nothing I want to talk about right now," he said, and put in the code on the barn door. "Everything's fine."

"Liar," Mandy said. "Come over and talk to me about it. We'll do dinner."

Jason pushed the door open. "Aren't you still on tour for the last book?"

"Just got back from California a few days ago and did an interview with the Australian publisher this morning, so my schedule's clear. I'm taking a little time off. How about pizza and beer?"

Jason's mouth watered at the thought. "You don't drink beer."

"But you do." It was an old joke between them; he was glad she remembered it too. "See you when you get here." She ended the call. Jason shut the door behind him and looked around. Nothing much had changed here either—a new and much more efficient woodstove, some replacement framing in the rafters, insulated windows instead of plain glass—but everything else was as he remembered it. He moved to the platform where the band held practice. The big bed sat stripped of linens. After a moment he dropped his duffel on the floor and went to the little storage closet where sheets, pillows and blankets were kept.

Once the bed was made up he checked the cube fridge. It held a dozen beers, as usual; Dad had probably stocked up after the last band practice. Jason took one, popped the top and drank. He savored the clean, bitter taste, and sat on the bed. It was so quiet here . . . The silence was welcome, even with all the emotions and conflicting thoughts that buzzed in his head. He felt some of the tension deep inside fade a bit, and let go a long breath. Time enough to think about what to do in the days ahead. For now, this was enough to go on.

He checked to see if anyone had requested the car, decided against a return to the house for a shower, and used the outside tap to get some water for a cold but effective sponge bath. A change of clothes and he was ready . . . or so he thought, until he got a good look at his hair in the rear view mirror.

It felt both odd and reassuring to pull in a few spaces down from Gordy's place. Jason parked, set the locks and smiled a little at the ingrained habit as he stepped out. From where he stood he could see Lou's, not busy at the moment, the newly-painted café tables empty under their Cinzano sunshades. He'd stop there a bit later and pick up dinner.

"Hey, Jason!" Andy closed the newslink he watched and stood as a smile brightened his face. "Heard you were in town, good t'see ya! How ya been?"

"Hey Andy. Doin' okay," Jason lied. "Haven't had much time to keep my hair from taking over, can you wash it up and trim it back for me?"

"Sure thing. Have a seat over at the sink and we'll get things done."

By the end of the session Jason knew who'd died, gotten married, had kids, spent a night in the drunk tank, and the general state of the farming community. "Commuters takin' over," Andy grumbled as he ran a comb loaded with bay rum through Jason's hair. "They don't know nothin' about bein' here but they sure can bitch up a storm. Damn city people. Everyone wants t'live in the country but they don't want no farms around. Idiots!"

Eventually Jason made his escape, after a promise to stop by when he had a chance. Once liberated, he headed for Lou's and put in a call to Mandy.

"I'm in town and about to order. What do you want?"

"How about our old standard? And a side of onion rings, I could really go for those."

Jason blinked. "You could?"

"Yeah. See you shortly."

To his surprise David greeted him at the register. "Hey, _ragazzo_!" He gave Jason a warm hug. "Good to have you home, and I bet you're sick of everyone saying that." He drew back and tugged on a lock of Jason's hair. "Been to see Andy already, you got a hot date this fast?"

"Hey Dave," Jason said, and smiled a little. "Dinner with Mandy, she wants the usual and some onion rings."

"Okay—come on back and help out, we can talk for a while. Dinner rush won't start for another hour."

Jason put on the apron David handed him. As he knotted the strings around his waist he knew a rush of nostalgia, bittersweet but still enjoyable. How many weekend nights in high school and vacations during college had he stayed till the small hours to wash up, clean down, check the register receipts, make the bank run for the night deposit? How many mornings had he stumbled in to do an hour of food prep and setup before school, get the wash started for towels and aprons, napkins and tablecloths, down shots of espresso and go over exam material between chores? Those were good times, he knew that now; everything put forward toward the dream of his medical license . . . He washed his hands and had to smile when he lifted his elbow for the flange shutoff, sheer force of habit now.

David didn't say much as they worked together, but when the pizza came out of the oven and went into the box, accompanied by a generous portion of onion rings and a container of salad, the older man said "When you're ready to talk about whatever's wrong and you need someone to listen, I'm here." He patted Jason's shoulder. "Go enjoy your girl's company. She misses you."

He drove down familiar streets and pulled up at Mandy's place. On impulse he called home. "I'm over at Mandy's for dinner," he said to Dad. "Not sure how late I'll be out." He hesitated. "How's Mom?"

"She's talking to Prof. He's making noises about coming back. No, I think that might be a good thing," Dad said when Jason sighed. "Anyway, we'll talk about it tomorrow. Say hello to Mandy for me."

The house looked the same as it always did, more or less—a fresh coat of paint, some new shutters and upgraded solar panels on the roof, but otherwise it was the same simple frame house Mandy had inherited on her mother's death. She'd worked hard to pay off the rest of the mortgage and make some much-needed renovations, had chosen to attend school online while she worked two jobs. But her diligence had been rewarded; her last book had made the _New York Times_ bestseller list a few months ago and stayed in the top five ratings. Jason knocked on the door, put in the code, and yelled "Pizza guy!" as he always did.

"In the kitchen!"

She stood at the fridge with a bottle of beer in hand, and when she turned to him Jason felt that funny little stutter in his heart the first sight of her always caused. "Hey handsome," she said, and smiled. "Stopped off at Andy's, I see. He did a good job."

Jason set everything on the counter and came to her. She fitted into his arms, her face lifted for his kiss.

"It's a beautiful day," she said. "Let's eat outside."

The back yard was quiet, as the long rays of the setting sun glided across the garden patio. They sat at the old table Mandy had trash-picked, stripped and re-painted, with comfortable mismatched chairs and an old patched sunshade, furled now.

"Oh god, I've been dying for this ever since you called." Mandy lifted a slice out of the box and took an enormous bite, her eyes closed in bliss.

"Nice to know you only love me for my pizza," Jason said, and dumped two slices on his plate. "How's the publicity tour going?"

"I always loved you for more than your pizza. As for the touring, it's pure hell. I hate it. But it does sell more books." Mandy licked her fingers. "I have a fan club."

Jason popped open a beer. "Well _yeah_."

"No, not you," but she smiled at him as she set her slice down and picked up the glass of white wine she'd brought with her. "I'm getting used to all the madness, god help me." She sipped her wine. "What happened? The last time we talked you were up for the fellowship."

The relaxation Jason felt vanished. He set down his beer. "I'm facing a disciplinary committee in two weeks."

Mandy's eyes widened. After a moment she said quietly, "Tell." It was their old shorthand way of saying 'whatever you want to say is okay and I won't judge'.

So he told her all of it, until the shadows lengthened and the solar lights came on around the garden, and the air held a little chill as the sky overhead began to turn a clear, deep blue. When he was done Mandy got up. "Let's go in," was all she said.

They ended up on the couch together in front of the fire. Mandy rested her head on his chest, as she always did. "It won't be easy for you, staying with your parents," she said. "You're welcome here, I hope you know that."

"Thanks." He played with a lock of her soft hair. "I thought you and that guitarist were together."

"Musicians are shites." She smacked his hand when he yanked gently on her hair. "It's true!" She moved back to look at him. "What about you? Are you still with that resident you met over Christmas?"

"I wasn't with her, we had a few drinks at a party and she decided we were a couple." Jason shrugged. "We weren't."

"So, we're both at loose ends." Mandy yawned. "Sounds good to me."

When she fell asleep Jason brought the throw down from the back of the couch and tucked it around the two of them, then sat there for a long time to stare into the fire, comforted by the feel of Mandy's soft, warm curves pressed close. When his link chimed he said quietly "I'm here."

"Quite a pretty kettle of fish you've cooked up for yourself, I must say," Prof said. "I'm on my way there tomorrow. And just because you're the author of all this fine foofaraw, you get to pick me up from the airport."

"Okay." He hesitated. "What do you think?"

"I shan't form an opinion at this early stage, other than to say you'd better hope the committee is in a listening mood. Very well, my dear boy. We'll see each other shortly."


	3. Chapter 3

Roz finished a paragraph and took a sip of coffee. She stretched a little and shifted in her chair, aware she'd been at her desk longer than usual. Her back ached a bit, and her stomach growled to let her know she hadn't had breakfast yet, late as it was. She glanced at the screen. "Pause writing."

The kitchen was quiet, with just a few stray beams of sunshine to filter in from the window. Greg had been here and gone, that much was obvious—half-empty coffee pot on the warmer, with a spoon on the counter and sugar granules scattered around it. It was a familiar and somewhat reassuring sight; still, Roz rolled her eyes for form's sake and began to clean things up.

She'd just stirred some milk into reheated coffee when Greg burst into the kitchen. He shoved the door shut behind him, and paused when he saw Roz. She glanced over at him with a smile. It faded when she took in his expression. "What is it? Are you all right?"

He stood there, defiance and anxiety in every line of his lean frame. After a moment he left the kitchen. She heard him move through the living room and into the study. The door slammed behind him. Roz set down her cup.

"_Dammit_," she said under her breath. Clearly he'd had a fight with someone at the Goldman place, and for him to be this upset it had to be with Sarah. She debated a call to her friend, but knew right away that would be a mistake. Undoubtedly Sarah was just as upset as Greg, and wouldn't be ready to talk about what happened. Or to listen to reason either; Sarah owned a large store of patience and forbearance, but when her temper was roused it took her some time to cool down.

Roz contemplated her cup. She took it to the sink and dumped out the contents, cleaned the pot and set to work on some _espresso_. Normally she saved real coffee as a weekend treat, but she needed something to bolster her self-confidence. She made good _espresso_, the way Poppi and Nana had taught her. And the task gave Greg time to settle in and feel safe. He'd be holed up in the study now, probably perched by the open window with a smoke in one hand and bourbon in the other, and music on the turntable.

A soft chirp by her feet told her the cat was awake and ready for second breakfast. She smiled down at Hellboy and thought of the first two black cats with that name, as she always did. "Good morning sweetie. I'm glad you're in a happy mood at least."

Roz fed the cat and began to steam the milk and brew the _espresso_, careful to pack the grounds firmly. It felt good to go through the familiar steps in her quiet kitchen. A short time later she had two large foam-topped lattes and a plate of _biscotti_ on a tray, along with leftover bacon and the last muffin. She moved through the living room to the study, tapped the door with her foot, and elbowed the latch to come in. Music greeted her—Bessie Smith as she sang "tain't nobody's business if I do". Greg sat by the window. A shot of bourbon sat on the windowsill, and next to it an ashtray with several half-smoked cigarettes crushed out. He glanced at Roz as she set the tray on the desk. Without a word she handed him one of the mugs. He accepted it, took a large gulp, dumped the shot of bourbon into it. Roz winced inwardly but said nothing. She settled in the chair at the desk and sipped her own coffee, and waited.

"Talked to your best friend lately?" Greg said at last. His voice was too loud and harsh—sure signs of agitation and fear.

"No, because I'm talking to him right now for the first time this morning," she said, and kept her own voice mild. "What happened?"

"What the hell do you think?" He set the mug aside and stared out the window.

"I don't know. That's why I'm asking you."

"Fuck off." He downed another long swallow of coffee, wiped his mouth with the back of his hand. Roz saw the tremor, something he was usually careful to keep hidden; that meant whatever had happened was truly alarming. At this point she had only one way to deal with the situation that would keep it from escalation into a spill-over fight.

"Don't think I will," she said, and gave him a cool smile. "Now you've got me interested. Might as well tell me what happened or I'll pry it out of you with sex and cookies." Greg snorted and looked away. "That's your only warning, so spill your beans, buster."

"Guts," Greg said. "You mean guts." His fingers tightened on the mug handle. "No narcotics? You're slipping."

"I use what I have on hand." She opened a button on her shirt and flashed him the top of her right breast. "There's more where that came from if you tell me what happened."

He couldn't help it—the right corner of his mouth quirked up, even as he glared at her. Roz could see the urge to talk to her fight to free itself. She played with the next button and raised her brows. Greg's smile widened a bit. "Cookies," he pointed out. Roz took a _biscotti_ from the tray. She dipped the tip in her coffee, tapped the drop, then held it up and licked her lips.

"Come and get it," she said in her best sultry tone. Greg stared at her, and then he made a noise somewhere between a groan and a laugh.

"Damn women," he said, "you'll all be the death of me yet." He reached out for the _biscotti_ but Roz held it away from him.

"Uh uh," she said, still doing her best to sound sexy. "I get to sit on your lap."

"I don't think there's enough room now," Greg said. "Unless you want to . . . accommodate me." He offered her a leer, but Roz could see his heart wasn't really in it. Her worry increased, but she said nothing, just got up and walked over to him. When she eased onto his lap he took the _biscotti_ but didn't eat it. He set it on his plate and slipped his arm around her waist, drew her close. His kiss tasted of bourbon and tobacco, and coffee. After it was done he nuzzled her hair, another sure sign of distress on his part.

"What happened?" Roz dared to ask a few minutes later. Greg sighed.

"The kid's due to meet with a kangaroo court over writing papers for other people during med school."

Roz felt a shock of surprise. "_Jason_?" She felt Greg tense, and a cascade of unwelcome knowledge filled her just from his reaction. "Sarah thinks you had something to do with it."

"I did have 'something to do with it'," Greg snapped. "He needed extra money, so I told him how I did it back in the day."

She had to be very careful here; one wrong word or move on her part and she'd lose him. "Okay," she said quietly. "But I thought he was getting paid as a resident."

"He's—he's been giving the money to Gunney, to help pay off the loans. Personally I think he's an idiot, but that's just me." The bravado in Greg's voice was belied by the way he retained his hold on her, as if he was afraid she'd pull away, get up and leave. It was one of his oldest and most pervasive fears, she knew; he was still afraid of rejection and abandonment, though it didn't show up as much as it had at the start of their relationship.

"And Sarah knew nothing of any of this?" Roz put her hand over Greg's, where it rested on her waist. "_Amante_, you have to get why she's mad at you—at all of you, right now anyway."

"Because she's a moron." Greg took her hand, held it tightly. "I suppose you agree with her."

"I understand her. There's a difference," Roz said. "She probably sees what happened as the three of you dismissing her. She went through a lot of that with her family. None of them ever took her seriously or believed in her."

"Come on, you know you want to take her side on this." Greg's lips brushed her hair.

"I'm not taking sides because that leads to armed camps. I'm a lover, not a fighter," Roz said, and squeezed Greg's hand gently. "Give her and yourself some time to calm down. Then be ready to talk when Sarah comes to you. Or go to her if she decides to be stubborn. If she has her back up, she might wait to see what you'll do."

"Personal experience talking," Greg said. He leaned back a bit and looked into her eyes. His own held worry and annoyance, and that edge of curiosity so typical of him. "What happened?"

"We had a fight."

Greg lowered his brows. "No shit. What _happened_?"

"It was one of those things where you have a disagreement about something small and it just sort of escalates, you know?" Roz rested her cheek on his shoulder. "One minute we were arguing about something stupid, the next we were having it out."

"Girl on girl," Greg said. "I'd like to have seen that."

"Shut up." Roz smacked him gently. "Took us a week to talk. When we did we found out both of us had been miserable and scared to death that we'd lost our best friend."

"Were there makeup kisses?" Greg flinched as Roz's slap was a little more forceful this time. "Ow!"

"_Buffone_. Focus on the important part. Give yourselves some time, and then be willing to listen." Roz's amusement faded. "She's just as scared of losing you as you are of losing her. You're good friends to each other and have been for years. Neither one of you wants to throw that away."

Greg was silent for a while. "Maybe I did," he said, so quietly Roz could barely hear him.

"No," Roz said. "No, you didn't."

"You can't know that—"

"Yes I can. I know you, as much as you let me anyway." She softened the tart comment with a kiss to his throat, felt him swallow. "I know Sarah too. You're both stubborn and way too opinionated, but you love each other. You do," she said when Greg groaned. "There's nothing wrong with admitting it, _amante_. All we have in this life are the people we care about, and ourselves."

They sat there for a while and listened to Bessie sing about how nobody loves you when you down and out. "What did you tell Jason?" Roz asked finally.

"Reconsidering your neutrality already." The bitterness was unexpected. Roz drew in a breath, shocked.

"_No_," she said. "I'm trying to figure out what happened."

Greg said nothing for a moment. Then he gave a reluctant, rusty chuckle. "My practical scientist," he said, and tightened his hold gently.

"So what did you say to him?"

"What anyone says to some poverty-stricken shmuck in med school. You want to make some money, write papers."

Roz hesitated. "That's it? Nothing else?"

"Nothing else to say." Greg's tone sharpened. "I didn't tell him to use a quill from Satan dipped in babies blood, if that's what you want to know."

"Smartass." Roz sat up a bit. "I need to call some people."

"Tattling on me—"

"_No_." Roz took his face in her hands and made him look at her. "_Amante_, do you trust me?"

"Unfair question," he said. "I hate it when you ask me that."

"Stop whining. Do you trust me?"

He nodded finally and turned his gaze away, but she felt him relax just a little. Satisfied, she leaned in and brushed a kiss over his lips. "Good. I'll be back in half an hour."

[H]

Twenty-eight minutes and seventeen seconds later, his wife re-enters the study. She resumes her seat on what he still thinks of as his good thigh, and slips an arm around his waist. "With your agreement, we'll meet with Gordon and Jason later this evening," she says quietly. Greg studies her. She looks back at him, her expression relaxed, open; no subterfuge or deception, but then there wouldn't be. Still, he has deep misgivings about this idea.

"The Brit's in the south of France," he points out.

"He'll be on his way here shortly." At his groan she offers a slight smile, but her gaze is still serious, her eyes a deep moss green. "You know Sarah will listen to him even when she's got a mad on."

"Wrong focus," he points out. "Mommy can be as pissed off as she likes. This is about getting the kid into the fellowship."

"I get that, but nice of you to dumb it down for me," Roz says dryly. He hears the fugitive spark of amusement in her voice, and a little of the knot tied tight deep inside him relaxes. When he lifts his hand to her face, his fingers only tremble a little. She turns her head and kisses his palm.

"How are the tremors today?" she asks, and the genuine love and concern in her quiet words eases the fear. He hates to talk about the damn shakes, but he knows she cares.

"No worse than usual." He trails his fingertips over her skin, traces the wrinkles at the corner of her eye. It always surprises him to see the signs of age she bears—the lines in her face, the silver in her dark hair. "Think I'll go into work for a while."

Roz tilts her head a bit. She says nothing for a few moments, then leans in and kisses him. "I'll make you some lunch. You have my tutoring schedule in your planner, right?"

"Yes, ma'am." He brushes his lips over hers just because he can. "Of course I do, ma'am—"

"Oh, shut up," she laughs, and deepens his little touches into another kiss, this one far more satisfying for both of them.

"Forget about the schedule," he says when the kiss ends. "Let's stay in bed all afternoon and shag each other senseless."

"Can't do it today," she says against his lips, "but tomorrow we can have the whole day, not just the afternoon."

"Well . . ." He pretends to consider her offer. "I guess it'll have to do."

"I'll put it on my schedule. 'Nine to whenever, shagging my husband senseless.' Mmmm . . . sounds good." Roz busses the corner of his mouth. "Come on, show me what you want for lunch and I'll pack it for you."

Half an hour later, he's on his way into work. One of the nice things about being retired is plenty of time to pester the people he used to employ. Well, to be honest he still employs them, since he's on the board of directors. In fact he runs the board, and everyone knows it. But he's not titular head anymore, something he'd thought would cause problems. Actually, it's made harassment of the staff that much easier. He can torment them with impunity, and leave Chase to clean up afterwards.

The afternoon is a pleasant one, warm and sunny, a fulfillment of the morning's promise. On that thought Greg calls the clinic. The last thing he wants right now is to meet Sarah face to face. The call's answered within moments—he's made sure no one ever gets shunted off to voicemail without a damn good reason—fire, loss of limb, marauding raptors.

"Good afternoon, Southern Adirondacks-"

"Why are you answering like that when you know it's me?" he demands. "Is the shrink there?"

"Doctor House—"

"Miss Lang," he imitates her chirpy tone. "Answer my question."

"Doctor Goldman isn't here—"

"Good. Get Chase."

There's an exasperated sigh. "Doctor—"

"Chase? That you? You sound different. Damn, you finally got that sex change done! Bet you charged the whole thing to the clinic account."

A few moments of muffled words, then Chase is on the line. "House?"

"Right first time. Impressive." Greg slows down for the four-way stop, then surges across. "I'm on my way in."

"Why? We have all the current cases diagnosed correctly. You should know, you consulted on them."

"And you don't want me in the office. What's going on? Wait, I know! You and Singh finally built that still in the back yard."

"If we didn't want you here we would have changed the locks," Chase says.

"You'd move the whole thing to Mars if you thought you could get permission to open a clinic there, just to keep me out." Greg glances out the window. He's about two minutes away now. "Call a file party. Time to find new patients."

"We were planning on one this afternoon." Chase wears a smile, Greg can hear it in his words. He'll have to do something about that.

"Liar liar, pants now at four alarms. See you in a few."

He still has the best parking spot, right next to the back door. The bike rack is half-full, which means the fellows are in attendance. Most of them live in the village and bike to work like the conscientious, fitness-minded young people they are. House glances over the models. One balloon-tire bomber, one mountain bike, one Schwinn three-speed that's older than he is. He sighs in mild disgust and submits to the security system's retinal scan to enter the building. They need to update their access mode, but no one really minds about the scan, though of course he complains on a regular basis about how it scars his maculae and gives him cataracts.

There's a patient cleared to go home. Greg slips into the kitchen to avoid a hug-a-thon from grateful family members, and to get a mug of coffee and any leftover doughnuts. Singh is there ahead of him. He stirs milk into his cup, nods in acknowledgment and doesn't make the mistake of a surreptitious glance at Greg's hands. "Morning."

"Astute observation," Greg says. Singh dumps a teaspoon of sugar into his coffee, adds another one.

"It's morning somewhere," he says in a reasonable tone. "Files are ready in C-1 whenever you are." With a nod he departs, as discreet as ever.

The conference room is the original they used for years before the renovation; it's still Greg's favorite, small and comfortable, familiar. He settles in at the head of the table, props his feet on the polished wood, sips his coffee and waits for the others to arrive. They aren't far behind him; Chase shows up first, followed by Singh, and then the fellows: Steinman, Wayne and Norton. For one moment he expects McMurphy to come in behind them with a pile of mail and a sarcastic comment; he knows a moment of sadness and loss, unabated though two years have gone by since her death. To cover it he says "About time you all showed up. Slackers. Get busy."

The fellows grab files like they're life preservers. Chase and Singh sit back and wait. Predictably, Wayne is the first to come up with a comment.

"Jesus. Who vets these?" He tosses it aside. "This one's the neurological equivalent of a kid with a bean up his nose."

Steinman raises her brows. "You read the whole thing in fifteen seconds?" she wants to know. "I didn't know I was sitting with a real genius."

"Learn something new every day," Wayne says. He glances at Greg as he reaches for another file. Greg gives him a steely stare, just to play with him. The younger man pauses, then picks up the discarded file. "Uh . . . maybe I was a little hasty."

"Don't change your mind on my account," Greg says mildly. He means every word. Wayne shifts in his seat and opens the file, his face scarlet. Steinman rolls her eyes and shakes her head. Greg moves his stare to her. "Problem, Miss Granger?"

"Yeah," she says in that forthright manner he finds intensely annoying and a valued asset at the same time; she reminds him of Cameron and Chandler, naïve and defensive, but ready to stand her ground regardless. "You encourage him to act that way because you think it's funny." She opens her file. "I think it's stupid."

"That stick up your ass is stupid too," Norton says. He slides a finger down the spines of the file folders and pulls one out. "You'd feel so much better if you got rid of it."

"Now, children," Chase says, calm and unruffled. His blue eyes gleam with amusement. "We're choosing patients, not duking it out on the playground, so let's get to it."

Greg half-listens as the process begins. Despite the personality conflicts, maybe even because of them, this is an effective team; Chase did a good job when he selected them. They really don't need him here, a fact that gives him a great deal of satisfaction, along with a certain wistfulness for the old days. He misses his place at the center of it all, sometimes; the sense of excitement when puzzle pieces turn up, the adrenaline rush of an epiphany, even the cold fear of a wrong turn—it all meant he was right, what he was did was right, and the people around him knew it.

"Any insights from the Central Scrutinizer?" Chase wants to know. Greg pulls his thoughts away from the past and picks up his mug. He really shouldn't drink coffee, it makes the tremors worse, but fuck it—he's lived this long, he can do as he damn well pleases. The mug wobbles just a little but makes it to his lips without a spill. He takes a long sip, savors the dark-roast taste, thinks of Diane Wirth and her office loaded with paperwork and that pristine coffeemaker. Her successor drinks herbal tea; it's a sacrilege he can hardly bear to contemplate.

"Wayne's pick, worth looking into. The family doctor wouldn't have referred the girl to us if it was something easily figured out. I know that doc, one of the few decent GPs around. Steinman's choice, sounds like some kind of VD hidden in the crevices. So to speak."

"The patient said he never—" Steinman begins.

"You know, we really should have 'EVERYBODY LIES' chiseled above the doorway to this hellhole," Greg talks over her. "Chase, have Lang look into it."

Chase gives him a nod, imperturbable after years of similar comments. Greg continues as he pins Norton with a cool stare. This is the fellow he's really interested in. "Norton's offering, now that's a very interesting case. Especially considering you planted it in the stack yourself."

Norton looks surprised, but only for a moment. "Yeah, I did." There's no attempt at a lie. "I think this patient needs our help, but he's got no insurance, no way to pay us."

"This isn't a fucking charity," Greg snaps. "Who is this guy to you? Family?"

"I met him during my residency. He was diagnosed with ME, but I think there's more going on." Norton leans forward a little. "A lot more. I want to know. So does he. Isn't that what we do here? Find out what's going on?"

Greg sets down his mug. "How much is the bet?"

Norton blinked. "Uh—what?"

"Come on, how much? A grand? Two? This one goes back a long way, so I'm thinking two thousand or more." Greg looks down his nose at Norton. "Compounded interest too, no doubt."

"How . . ." Norton touches the file. "I really do want to know, but I'd give up the money if it meant the patient had some peace of mind. I'd rather keep it though."

"That's very noble of you." Greg doesn't bother to hide his amusement.

"I got a ton of student loans," Norton says. He sounds angry now, all wounded injustice. "I'd rather get that load off my back, you think that's wrong somehow?"

Greg says nothing at first. "No," he says finally, though he doesn't speak just to Norton now. "No, it's not wrong." He rubs his thigh, then moves his feet off the table. "Take the case. First one to figure it out gets double the money, because everyone chips in on this." He ignores the collective groan and gets to his feet. "Find another two cases. I'll be in my office. Don't bother me unless there's booze or beautiful women involved."

He makes good his escape and sits at his desk for the rest of the afternoon, with the window open, a stack of new journals to read through, his wife's excellent lunch to savor, and music in the background. None of it really helps much, but he's still glad he's got the distractions there all the same.

'_Ain't None of Your Business (If I Do),' 'Nobody Loves You (When You're Down and Out),' Bessie Smith_


	4. Chapter 4

Jason sat back in the corner of the couch. The house was quiet now; he watched the flames burn low in the fireplace. He should bank the embers, a chore that had been second nature for years before he'd left for school. Of course nothing would happen if he didn't, the fire would just go out . . . but he'd caused enough trouble for a lifetime, no point in the addition of another few points to his total of black marks. With a sigh he got up and banked the fire, replaced the screen, went into the kitchen and got a fresh beer. On his return he settled back into his seat and closed his eyes. Exhaustion tugged at him, but his brain continued to replay the events of the last two hours.

"_First of all, everyone here must understand this meeting is not about assigning blame. We're here to discover exactly what's happened, how we all see it from our own points of view, and how we can proceed to a better outcome."_

_Jason stared down at his hands. Prof could say whatever he wanted, but the real reason for this meeting was to find a way to fix a mistake and save his parents investment. Not that he blamed Mom and Dad; they'd dumped a lot of money into his education and they had an expectation of a reasonable return, in the form of his medical license. He'd put that investment in jeopardy now, so of course they were upset . . . and disappointed in him too. He winced at the thought. Maybe he wasn't as different from his real mom and dad as he liked to think. Maybe he was a loser and nothing could change that. It wasn't the first time he'd faced that possibility; there had been plenty of nights in med school and residency when he'd woken in a cold sweat from memories of his childhood, convinced he was a complete fraud who had no business in any institution of higher learning__._

"_Jason," Mom said, and the ache in her voice stabbed at him. He didn't look at her. "I know you're worried, we all are—"_

"_You don't know," he said to the floor. "None of you know anything." He felt as if he was back in the lockup at Juvy, twelve years old, dirty, cold and hungry, surrounded by adults who saw only a troublemaker, a screwup. It was a perverse point of view, the rational side of his mind knew quite well the people in this room loved and cared about him, but he couldn't help the emotions deep inside. _

"_That's why we're here, dear boy," Prof said__.__ His image wavered a bit, then steadied. "You're quite right, we don't know. And that is where you come into the picture. We'd like you to tell us what happened, and how we can help."_

_Jason said nothing. He'd gotten himself into this mess, he'd get himself out somehow; he'd always known how to survive, this was no different. He drew his silence around him like a cloak of invisibility, and remembered how it had served him in the past. _

"_If you shut down," Dad said, "if you try to do this on your own, nothing will change."_

"_Nothing's going to change whatever we say here," Jason said. "I wrote the papers, the committee will kick me out of my residency."_

"_It doesn't have to be that way," Mom said. She'd tried to talk to him earlier that day, but he couldn't open to her, couldn't bear the thought that he'd hurt her even more, or let her hurt him again. "Jason, please. Let us in so we can help."_

"_Why isn't House here?" Jason asked. No one answered right away._

"_He was invited," Dad said. "He decided not to show. Roz called and said she would stay with him."_

"_She chose the only logical course of action open to her," Prof said. "Undoubtedly her husband would see her joining us as an act of betrayal, because for once he isn't thinking any more clearly about this situation than the rest of you."_

"_And just what is that remark supposed to mean?" Mom wanted to know._

"_Very well, since you want me to lay it out for you simply, here it is: _none_ of you are _thinking_. You are all viewing a set of actions and consequences through a subjective lens rather than an objective one, and it's playing merry hell with your ability to find a working solution. Now, let's turn our minds and not just our hearts to the situation at hand, and see what can be done." _

"Okay if I join you?" Dad stood by the couch. In the flickering light he looked tired, his strong features half-hidden in shadow. After a few moments Jason nodded. Dad sat next to him, leaned back into the cushions. He extended his hand. Jason hesitated, then offered him the beer. Dad took a long swallow and gave back the bottle, to Jason's surprise. "You're long since old enough to make your own decisions about what you drink and when," Dad said. He stretched a bit and groaned softly. "Shoulder's killin' me."

"I thought you had someone look at that," Jason said.

"It's just me getting older. I put moist heat on it, Mom massages it and it's better for a while." Dad tipped his head back with care. "You didn't say much tonight."

"Nothing to say." Jason sipped his beer.

"Bullshit. You had plenty to say, you just figured we didn't want to hear it." There was no animosity in Dad's voice. "It's easy to shut down and push people away. Take it from someone who knows, it won't work."

"I already hurt you and Mom. I don't want to hurt her or you any more." Jason gave the beer bottle a slow twirl and tried to ignore the pain in his heart. "What's gonna happen is gonna happen."

"Goddamn it. I thought your mother was stubborn." Dad sighed. "Did it ever occur to you that maybe instead of expecting the worst, you could actually look for a solution that will get you out of hot water?"

"You'd like that." The words came out before he could stop them.

"Yeah, I would. But not for the reason you're implying. I'll take my lumps with Mom on my own terms, and we'll deal with things in our own way. I'm not gonna use you to solve my problems."

"_Dad_," Jason said, and swallowed. "I'm sorry." After a moment Dad's hand came to rest on his back. His touch was warm and comforting. He didn't say anything, just rubbed Jason's back. "I don't know how anything could change." Jason closed his eyes. They burned with tiredness.

"You're stuck in a fixed point of view. Tonight you had several others to choose from, but you're so locked into your own that you pushed them away. It was a mistake." Dad spoke softly, but every word was distinct and strong. "And our mistake was in pushin' you too hard, too fast. Right now you're too damn tired to work on anything besides a good long sleep. I suggest you go to bed. You don't have to walk all the way back to the barn, Mom made up your room for you."

"You think in the morning everything will be all better?" He couldn't keep the bitterness out of his words. Dad gave his shoulder a gentle squeeze.

"I think once you've had a chance to rest, you'll be able to consider what's been said and decide what to do next." Dad gave him a little pat. "Go get some sleep, and when you're ready we'll talk."

It felt weird to be in his old bedroom. Mom had built a fire for him, and the bedclothes were turned down to reveal freshly laundered sheets and blankets. She'd even left a plate of cookies and a cup of water on his nightstand, along with a stack of battered paperbacks. Guilt swamped him as he sat on the edge of the bed. He didn't deserve any of this after the way he'd acted . . . With a sigh he stripped off his shirt and jeans, removed his socks, and slipped under the covers. For the first time that day, allowed himself to relax a little. This felt familiar; he closed his eyes and was surprised to find tears in his eyes. He wiped them away, impatient at his weakness. Crying solved nothing, all it did was give you a headache.

He lay in the soft, flickering darkness a long time, while salty tears slid down his cheeks and chilled his skin.


	5. Chapter 5

_May 7th_

_Gravity is working against me_

_and gravity wants to bring me down _

_I'll never know what makes this man_

_with all the love his heart can stand_

_dream of ways to throw it all away . . . _

Gene sipped his beer and stared into the fire. It was another chilly evening. They'd put covers over the garden plants and brought in the herbs and flowers from the front porch to beat the inevitable freeze, portended by clear skies with stars like diamonds. Now he sat in the quiet house and listened to his wife put the kitchen to rights. He wondered what he would say to her when they went up to bed later. She hadn't spoken to him since Jason had returned home; not a hostile silence exactly, but he knew there was a reckoning ahead. If he was honest, he resented the fight ahead. He understood Sarah's anger, but it still pissed him off no end.

"Hey." The object of his thoughts perched on the end of the couch. She looked tired; her hands were red from the washup, something she insisted on doing though they had a perfectly good dishwasher. "It's late."

"Yeah." Gene finished his beer and stood. A part of him quailed at what lay ahead, but there was no way around the gate except to go through it. He didn't even have their son's presence as an excuse; Jason had moved out to the barn after he'd spent a day around the tension between his parents. "I'll be right up."

He felt it was to his credit that he didn't linger in the kitchen, but went up the steps as if it was a normal evening, a spring night cool enough to allow him to spoon his wife and enjoy the feel of her soft skin, her thighs next to his, the familiar cloud of curls against his cheek.

She waited for him when he came in. He closed the door behind him but made no move to sit. "Gonna have it out?" he asked, and kept his voice mild, though he longed to shout at her to stop this. Sarah looked at him, her expression unreadable.

"You think I'm being unreasonable," she said at last. "You think this is a big fuss over nothin'." She made an impatient gesture. "Sit down. I won't bite."

Gene stayed where he was. "I see your point of view," he said. Honesty was the only thing that would work. "But I won't bullshit you, Sare. Yeah, I think this is you freaking out over something . . ." He tried to find the words. "Over the wrong something. I don't know how else to put it."

"If you think I'm angry about what Jason did, you'd be right," she said. "But what you did is worse." She gave him a hard stare. "We've talked before about this wild hair you have up your ass about protecting me."

He'd known this would be first on her list. "I wasn't—"

"_Don't_." It was a flat, cold warning. "Don't go there, just don't."

"I'm not! I wasn't protecting you, dammit!" He ran a hand through his hair, frustrated. "I don't—I don't know what the hell I was doing. Trying to avert a disaster. I knew neither one of you would give way on this."

"That amounts to the same thing, only you were trying to protect both of us." She didn't move her gaze from his face. "Why didn't you tell him to stop? _Why_?" The anguish in her voice stabbed at him. "We had things set up to pay off the damn loans, they're not Jason's responsibility—"

"You decided that," Gene snapped. "Jason tried to talk with you about it, I did too. You—you just made up your mind that his only contribution was to go to school when you _knew_ the kid felt guilty about the money he was costing us and wanted to help out!" He glared at her. "This is not about him, not all of it anyway. This is about you."

"If you mean my being a good mom, fine, I'll take that on," Sarah said without hesitation. Gene groaned.

"Just because your mom and dad never—"

"This is not about them!"

"Yes it _is_!_ God, _Sare! This is _all_ about them, and what they never did for you! So now you feel like you have to give with both hands and damn what anyone else wants—"

"Don't you lay all this on me!" Sarah's voice shook. "Don't you _dare_! Writing papers is wrong, you _know_ it's wrong, and going behind my back, taking his salary to pay off those goddamn loans is wrong too!"

"We'll get to that part of it after we look at why you fought so hard to keep Jason from contributing," Gene said. He felt the sharpness of his words, knew they would cut and wound. "He wouldn't have felt the need to do what he did if you'd let him help out."

There were tears in her eyes now, though she didn't let them fall. "So I'm the bad guy," she said after a few moments.

"Making this good guy-bad guy won't work." Gene leaned against the door. "It's not that simple. But yeah, your decision started all this. You didn't listen, Sare. Dammit, you didn't _listen_! You get pig-headed about helping people, you give too much, expect too much of yourself! There's no reason why Jason couldn't help pay his loans. You and I did. We lived through it!"

"It was hard as hell, living through it. I didn't want our boy to have to endure going without, he's done enough of that already." She spoke quietly, but Gene heard the pain and flinched from it. "So I am the bad guy after all—"

"No!" he heard his voice rise. "Stop it! Stop making me wrong for trying to figure this out! You don't get a free pass on this! Jason and I both tried to sit down with you, talk about finances and how to deal with them and you—you just laid down the law, you wouldn't consider any other viewpoint but your own!"

A knock on the door startled them. After a moment Gene moved away and opened it. Gordon stood there in his pajamas and bathrobe, hair tousled. "If the two of you must indulge in a barney, I insist on being brought in as referee. But please do let us have it out under more civilized circumstances," he said mildly. "Office, five minutes."

Once they were settled, Sarah and Prof with cups of tea, Gene with a bottle of beer he'd chosen out of pure defiance, Prof said "All right then, let us get down to the nitty gritty, as we used to say back in the day." He sat back in his chair and stirred his tea. "Sarah, we'll begin with you."

"So it is my fault," she said with some bitterness. Gordon set aside his spoon.

"Tut tut," he said mildly. "My dear, that tactic is quite beneath you. You will cease the attempt to cast blame at once."

She had the grace to blush. "I wasn't—"

"Yes you were." Prof's tone was quiet but inexorable. "I understand the temptation, but it will not avail you and only work to your detriment." He paused to sip his tea. "What is required here is a willingness to listen. Judging by the reactions you're drawing from each other, doing so involves a great deal of fear concerning what either one of you might hear."

Gene took a long swallow of beer and said nothing. Prof glanced at him. "Very well then," he said. "Let's begin at the beginning, shall we? How did all of this start? And by that I mean the issue at hand, not the _contretemps_ I interrupted a short while ago."

"When Jason was accepted into med school, we had a family meeting," Gene said. He didn't want to talk about this; he could feel his palms grow cold and sweaty. "Jason was worried about how much tuition would cost over the long haul."

"You say Jason was worried," Gordon said when Gene said nothing more. "What about you? Were you anxious about finances as well?"

"Yes," Gene said simply. Sarah glared at him.

"You never said anything!"

"I didn't think I needed to. We knew it would be tough, putting our son through school. We discussed how we felt about it at the beginning, if you remember." Gene stared down at the bottle in his hands. "Jason came to me and said he wanted to do something about helping out. He said he'd tried to talk with you but you shut him down."

"No I didn't," Sarah said. She set her cup on its saucer. "I told him his job was to study and we'd take care of the financial side of things."

"Like I said, you shut him down."

"Standing at an impasse won't help either," Gordon said. "Sarah my love, put yourself in Jason's place."

She didn't want to, that was plain. She struggled with the idea for some time. Gene took a long pull of beer, while Prof sipped his tea. "I'd be upset that my offer was rejected," she said with clear reluctance.

"And what else?" The steel in Gordon's quiet voice demanded an answer.

"If you're trying to get me to say I'd find a way around it, fine, I would!" Sarah folded her arms and looked away. "That's different."

"No it _isn't_," Gene said, exasperated beyond his ability to keep quiet. Gordon spared him a glance.

"Eugene," he said softly. It was a warning, despite the gentle tones. Gene looked away. "While I deplore your husband's outburst, I find myself forced to agree with him somewhat. Your hypothetical situation isn't substantially different from Jason's very real one."

"Except I never had a parent who cared," Sarah said, and now the bitterness was plain. "If someone, _anyone_, had offered to help me out I would have jumped at the chance to take it." She darted a glance at Gene, but he held his tongue. Prof nodded.

"Quite understandable. But Jason is not of the same opinion. Why do you expect him to think as you do?"

That struck her hard. She blinked. "I—no I don't."

"You do," Gordon said politely, and said nothing more. Sarah drew in a breath. She was pale now. Gene waited to see if she'd accept it.

"I just . . ." She faltered. "I didn't . . . I wanted something better for him."

"As all good parents do," Prof said. "But in this case, your young man stated his own preference. Knowing Jason, it was a reasoned and valid choice, and you invalidated it." He sighed softly. "Gene has already told you much of this, but apparently you need to hear it from another source, so I'll oblige. You are one of the most generous and compassionate people I've ever known, my darling and beautiful girl of the auburn curls. It is a rare and beautiful trait. If more of us owned it, the world would be a far better place. And yet it sometimes blinds you to what other people truly desire. You can't see what they need, because what _you_ need is in the way. And that, my love, is very selfish indeed, unintentional though it may be."

She did cry then, the slow, silent tears that meant she was deeply hurt. Neither Gene nor Gordon said anything, though it took all of Gene's self-control not to go to her. She wouldn't welcome comfort, not yet; not for some time, probably.

"Why is it wrong to say no to what Jason wanted to do?" she said after a painful silence. "We have the means to keep him from having to face years of debt."

"He can make that choice for himself," Gordon said. "As you well know, my dear girl. He's not twelve now, much as you might wish it."

Sarah looked down at her hands and didn't say anything more. Prof set down his cup. "I think we'll stop here for tonight. We can discuss Eugene's motivations in the morning after we've slept on what's been said tonight."

"There's something to look forward to," Gene muttered. He finished off the now-warm beer and got to his feet.

"I'll—I'd better stay down here tonight," Sarah said. Gene paused. This wasn't unexpected, but he'd planned to say something first.

"I'll take the couch," he said quietly. "You know it bothers your hip when you sleep downstairs." It was the closest he could come to 'I love you' at the moment. Sarah bit her lip but said nothing, only nodded.

They parted ways in the silent living room, with only the crackle of the fire for a parting commentary.

_twice as much ain't twice as good_

_and can't sustain like one-half could_

_it's wantin' more that's gonna send me to my knees_

_gravity stay the hell away from me_

_gravity has taken better men than me_

_now how can that be? _

_just keep me where the light is . . ._

'_Gravity', John Mayer_


	6. Chapter 6

_May 8th_

Sarah crept down the stairs, careful as always to step on the outer edge of the treads to keep them from creaking. Her first glance into the living room revealed Gene was already up, the pillows and blanket in disarray. So he'd had a bad night too . . . She felt a stab of guilt as she headed into the kitchen, to stop at the doorway.

Gene stood at the counter with a pitcher of water to fill the coffeemaker. In the early morning light it was possible to see his lean features were drawn, the lines around his eyes and mouth etched a little deeper; his thick, greying hair was tousled, in need of a good trim as usual. He glanced at her but said nothing. Sarah moved toward him, stopped. "Good morning," she said. It took all her courage to speak. Gene didn't answer. He poured the water into the coffeemaker and turned on the grinder, his back to her. It wasn't until she saw the slump in his shoulders, the way his throat moved when he swallowed, that she realized he was scared. Much against her will, a wave of tenderness moved through her. She went to him and with some hesitation, put her hand on his shoulder. She said nothing, just let it rest there. A tremor went through him at her touch, but he didn't pull away.

"I'm sorry." She could barely hear him. He shut off the grinder and felt for the start button, punched it blindly. Sarah reached out, took his hand in hers, guided it to her waist. He turned to her then, as his arms came up to bring her close. "I'm sorry," he said again. Still silent, she moved him to a seat at the breakfast counter and eased him down. He hung onto her like a drowning man. She kept her hold firm but gentle. It took a few minutes but eventually he relaxed a bit as his breathing deepened. When he spoke his voice was more steady, though she still heard the echo of pain in his words. "I never wanted any of this . . . I never meant to lie to you, Sare. It just happened."

From anyone else this would have likely have been a blatant attempt at emotional manipulation, but Sarah knew Gene wouldn't do it. He was much like their son that way; while both men weren't exactly forthcoming, they didn't shy away from being honest about what they felt, and rarely played head games. However, she knew a pre-emptive strike when she saw one.

"You'll still have to talk with Prof and me," she said as gently as she could. Gene let out a breath and buried his face in her hair.

"I don't know if I can."

Sarah held onto him for a while longer, until he'd calmed down a bit more. Then all she said was "You get the coffee, I'll heat up some cinnamon rolls."

They were into second helpings when Gordon appeared. It was clear he'd only been awake a short time, though he was dressed for the day. Without comment he got a teabag from the canister, added milk and the tea to a mug, poured in some just-boiled water from the carafe, and left everything to steep while he availed himself of the warm cinnamon rolls in the pan. Sarah knew well Prof was not a morning person. She said nothing, just made sure he had what he needed.

They ate in silence. When Gordon was done he took his plate and cup to the sink and washed up, making a quick, tidy job of it as he always did. Then he wiped his hands on the towel and went out of the kitchen, to pause at the doorway. "I'll be in the office when you're ready," he said, and left them. Sarah glanced at Gene. He stared down at the remains of a roll; his fingers tightened on the handle of his coffee mug. He looked sad and lonely. She felt like a tug-of-war rope, as love and anger pulled her toward opposing responses.

"We have to do this," she said quietly. "You know we do."

"_I_ have to," he said. It was a correction; she heard the emphasis on the first word. After a moment he stood.

When they entered the office, Prof was ready for them. "Do have a seat," he said. Sarah sat down but Gene remained on his feet. Gordon looked up at him. "You're not reporting your mistakes to a superior officer, you know," he said mildly.

"If you want me to talk, this is how it gets done," Gene said harshly. "Let's just get this over with."

"Very well," Gordon said. "When you're ready, tell us what happened."

Gene stared out the window. He took a breath. "I—"

"The kid came to us for help," Greg said from the doorway. Sarah jumped and turned to face him. Gene did the same. From the fleeting look of surprise in his eyes it was plain he hadn't expected their visitor.

"Doctor House," Gordon said, unperturbed. Sarah couldn't be sure if he'd seen Greg arrive, or just knew it was inevitable that he'd show up. "I see your _penchant_ for choosing the less-traveled path is as strong as ever."

"Couldn't concentrate on my game." At Prof's inquiring look Greg rolled his eyes. "_Candy Crush Forty: the Sugar Apocalypse._ All the cool kids have already hacked the 3D."

"I don't need your help," Gene said, still in that harsh tone Sarah hardly ever heard him use. "Fuck off."

"Hey, is that any way to talk to your fellow conspirator?" Greg leaned against the doorframe. "I'm hurt."

"All right, that's enough," Sarah said before Gene could answer. She would not submit to an escalation of tensions. "Get in here and sit down."

"Yes ma'am," Greg said. He sauntered into the office and perched a lean hip on the corner of her desk. "Gonna smack our piddies with a ruler just because we didn't ask your permission to help the rug rat. BO-ring."

"That will do," Prof said in a quelling tone. "Gene is offering his account of events. When he's finished, we'll ask for yours. Until then I suggest you resist the urge to mock, as you indulge in it to both your detriment as well as Eugene's."

"Ooohh, 'Eugene'." Greg widened his eyes in an expression of fake horror, then made a gesture as if he zipped his mouth closed. Gene sighed.

"Can I just get on with this?"

"You may," Prof said. Greg leaned in, a clear pretense of intense interest. Gene glared at him, then looked out the window once more.

"Jason came to me when he entered med school. He'd tried to talk with both Sarah and me about finances, but—" Gene hesitated. "Anyway—he wouldn't back down on helping pay for his tuition. I talked with him about it, but he . . . he was just as determined to help as his mother was to keep him from doing it."

"So that's your excuse," Sarah said. She couldn't help it, the words just came out before she could stop them.

"It's not an excuse!" Gene folded his arms and stared out the window. "I did my best to get him to back down. And if you remember, I did the same with you and neither one of you would listen to me."

The import of his words hit hard. Sarah saw things from his point of view, though she didn't want to—he'd been caught much as she was now, between love and anger, pulled in opposite directions, unsure of what to do.

"The kid wanted to help," Greg said. "You should be damn grateful."

"You had no business telling him to do something you know is wrong," Sarah said. She looked at Greg, but said it to Gene as well.

"Gunney didn't tell him, I did," Greg said. He gave Sarah an icy glare. "Your hubby attempted to keep the peace. I told him it was a shit move from the start, you'd never handle it. What do you know, I'm right again."

"And I'm not supposed to notice when no one's listening to me?" Sarah snapped. "Y'all made an end-run around everything I said!"

"As you touchy-feely Jungian quacks say, karma's a goddamn bitch," Greg said without an ounce of humor. "You weren't listening to anyone, so why should we listen to you?"

"_I_ listened!" Gene shouted. Sarah jumped, shocked by the sudden fury on display. "I listened to all of you, I tried to get you to listen to me but none of you would! It was—" He stopped, ran a hand through his hair.

"It was like your childhood," Prof said softly. Gene glared at him.

"_Yes! _Everyone fought over every single damn thing, and I hated it! I hate _this!_ But you pushed me into it, dammit! Jason said—" He stopped, went on. "He said if we wouldn't let him help, he'd—he'd leave school, get a job—he was serious, he was gonna throw away everything he'd accomplished—I couldn't—"

"You didn't tell me that," Sarah said. She felt as if someone had punched her in the gut.

"First time I've heard this too," Greg said. He gave Gene an appraising stare. "Bet you weren't supposed to tell."

"I'm done with secrets," Gene said. Bitterness replaced anger. "Secrets have been at the bottom of every fucking disaster in my life, and I've been stupid enough to keep them anyway. Fuck that, I've had enough. Enough, do you hear me? Are you listening now? You want the truth, fine. Here it is then. I did what I could to save our son from making a mistake. I lied by omission to you, and to him too. It was wrong, it was stupid! I did it because I love you both and there—there wasn't—I couldn't see any way out of a fight if I said anything. But I should have told the truth and let you and Jason have it out. Anything would have been better than this clusterfuck." There were tears on his cheeks now. He swiped at them and moved toward the door.

"Where are you going?" Sarah stood. Everything was happening too fast.

"Out." Gene left the office. She watched him go and struggled against the urge to stop him.

"Relax," Greg said. "He'll head into town, get his hair cut and spend a few hours nursing a beer and a couple of racks at the bar." He looked down at his hands. "I suppose that's my fault too."

Sarah blinked. She stared at Greg, took in the hunched shoulders, the downbent head, and knew not all of it was play-acting. "No," she said quietly. "It isn't."

"I'll tell both of you again, assigning blame is not the point," Prof said. He sighed. "Dear oh dear, this is quite the emotional minefield and here's me out of tea." He stood also and picked up his cup. "I suggest we adjourn to the kitchen and do second rounds before we proceed further."

[H]

Greg sits in the Goldman kitchen while he polishes off a third cinnamon roll. He's missed his shrink's excellent ways with baked goods; since he has no guarantee he'll get any in the future, he'll take advantage of access while he has it. The Brit makes another cup of tea; the man must have enormous bladder capacity. Sarah stands at the window and looks out on the resplendent morning. "Jason hasn't come in yet," she says. "I haven't seen him for two days now."

"He's old enough to wipe his own ass," Greg says, just to be a jerk. It's something he's good at, something guaranteed to piss people off every time, whether they admit it or not. It's a good gauge of how much tolerance he'll get, how long someone will last before they go off on him.

"I know that," Sarah says with something of a snap. "I don't expect him to call in every five minutes." She cradles her cup of coffee in her hands. "I'm his mom. I'm allowed to be worried."

"Didn't say you weren't." He sips his coffee, even though it's close to lukewarm now. "He'll show up when he's ready."

"Maybe I'd like to see him sometime sooner than next month," Sarah says.

"That's a substantial assumption on your part. Maybe the kid just needs some time off."

"Maybe the kid just doesn't want to face the consequences of his actions—"

"That is quite enough," the Brit says. His tone is polite, but with a steely edge.

"Just a friendly conversation," Greg says. "Just an exchange of viewpoints."

"Both of you are spoiling for an utterly meaningless barney and I'll have none of it, not when you're meeting with me. What you do on your own time is your business."

"I don't want to fight," Sarah says quietly. "I'm—can't I just be worried about my husband and my son?" She sighs softly.

"They'll be back," Greg says. It comes out hard, too loud. "Quit wallowing."

That earns him a direct look from the Brit. The look says _you will stop now_. It's not a threat or a challenge, it's a statement of fact that will be followed up, no doubt about it. Greg backs down a bit because though he'd never admit it, he holds a reluctant respect for the older man. "I'm just saying. No offense."

"None taken," Sarah throws right back at him. "Because it's not true. So shut up."

"Oh, very well. Since you've decided to skip the niceties let's begin as we mean to go on, " the Brit says. "Perhaps you'd tell us your part in the history of these proceedings, Doctor House."

"No point." Greg takes a last bite of roll and reaches for another one. "The shrink's already made up her mind. I'm the villain of the piece."

"If I thought you were really a villain you wouldn't be sitting in my kitchen, eating my rolls and doing your best to piss me off," Sarah says. "What you did was wrong, but that doesn't make you bad."

Greg rolls his eyes. "Gee, thanks," he says with all the sarcasm he can muster.

"I've worked with you for twenty years, Gregory. Pushing me to hate you is not gonna work." She sips her tea. In the morning light it's possible to see the grey in her hair. The rest of it has lightened, the color not as richly red as before; now she has a nimbus of pale auburn and strawberry-blonde curls to frame her fair face, her forehead, nose and cheeks sprinkled with freckles from years of outdoor work in summer. He's checked her for melanomas but she's been wise enough to use a hat and sunscreen over the years, so her redhead's creamy skin is in good shape. Somehow that knowledge hurts him more than anything else, in some nameless way he doesn't want to examine.

"Hate might be a little strong, at least for now anyway," he says out loud. "You'll hold back until you get the whole story, and then you'll make your ultimate judgment. I've worked with you for twenty years too, you know."

"I'm trying not to do that," she says simply. The answer is unexpected and startles him into looking at her.

"So you're going for all this 'act, not react' propaganda," he says. "Impressive. Let's see if you can do it." He takes a big bite of roll and chews loudly, swallows plenty of air with it, and lets out a loud burp. "It's none of your damn business what the kid gets up to at school."

Silence falls in the kitchen, aside from the sound of birds in the back yard and the wheezy chug of the washer in the mudroom, at work on another load of sheets. Greg knows whatever happens here, eventually Sarah will take those sheets out to the line and hang them to dry in the sun and wind. He steals a quick glance at the Brit, who sits on a stool as he stirs his tea. The other man gives him a mild look but doesn't speak.

"Nothing to say?" Greg says finally. He won't admit to sweaty palms.

"I don't agree." Sarah is firm but again, no overt emotion. He can hear it deep in her words though, the urge to bitch him out.

"I'll just bet you don't. He's old enough to make his own decisions."

"Decisions you were supposed to help him make!" She lets slip some anger now. "You're not just a fellow male, you're a mentor! That carries some responsibility—"

"It carries what I say it does, not your morality, not your rules!" he shoots back. "You shut down any conversation the kid tried to have with you about the finances—how many times do I have to say it? He came to me as a last resort, he knew this would get you all het up but he wanted—"

"You should have said no! You of all people-" Sarah faces him then, and he is shocked to see he's wrong, she's not angry. She's desperate. "I won't say more, you know I won't."

She refers to his own experiences in school with being expelled for cheating. That she will keep his revelations confidential, even though they've been on the public record since they occurred, tells him that as mad as she is at him, she really does care. "Say whatever the fuck you want," he growls at her. "What I did hasn't been a secret for almost fifty years now."

"If you're referring to Greg's cheating and expulsion from school, yes, I already know," the Brit says. "Continue."

"Fine." Sarah frees a hand, runs it through her curls. She snags one, twists it around her finger, an absent gesture Greg knows means she is deeply distressed. "You of all people should understand the consequences of that behavior, and yet you not only encouraged Jason, you showed him how to do it! And then you—you tell me it's none of my business—I'm his mom, it's completely my business! If you're not going to take your mentorship seriously—"

"Who says I didn't?" He can't let that go unchallenged. "Because I didn't set up junior's feeding schedule the way you like it—"

"Come on, you know I don't get like that with him! But this—" Her sea-grey eyes are stormy. "This is not me being unreasonable, dammit!"

"This is you being a control freak," Greg says. "Don't bother to deny it—"

"And this is both of you reacting," the Brit cuts in sharply. "You must both try harder than this!"

There's another little silence after that. Greg knows what he wants to say, but he's not willing to get slapped down; Sarah's looking like she's unsure of her ground now. After a few moments the Brit sighs and sets down his mug.

"You are both perfectly capable of self-discipline in this matter. The only reason you continue to wind each other up is because the two of you find a perverse satisfaction in doing so." He moves to the door.

"Where are you going?" Sarah wants to know.

"I shall follow in your estimable husband's footsteps and _ne in oppidum_, if I may put it in rather basic Latin. I'm due for a trimming, both at the barber's and at the pool table. You are both now officially free to have at it. When you're ready to reason instead of bashing each other with sledgehammers, apprise me and we'll talk." And with that he's gone.

Of course this has a chilling effect, something the Brit knows quite well, undoubtedly. Greg stares down at the half-eaten roll in the pan; Sarah looks out the window and tugs on the curl wrapped around her finger.

"You wanted me to be the kid's mentor," Greg says at last. He measures his words with care.

"Yes. Both Gene and I wanted it."

"You know my history, what happened at school, work . . ." He breaks off a chunk of roll, munches it. "You know you can't trust me."

"Oh bullshit. I have every reason to trust you. Yes I do, dammit!" she snaps when he shakes his head. "But this—" She faces him full on. This is not his shrink or Jason's mom, this is his friend—his great friend, the one who has saved him from himself on several notable occasions. He knows even now if he needed her, she'd be at his side ready to help. "I don't understand any of this."

"Whatever works," he says. "That's all you need to understand about me. That's been my mantra since I was three, as well you know."

"So you're saying this is the only solution you could come up with, for him to cheat? You didn't even try to think of anything else?"

"Don't lay this at my doorstep when you're the one who started it," he says, angry suddenly. "You say I'm not the villain but you keep coming back to this, trying to dump the blame on me!"

"I'm trying to figure this out," she says. The confusion and pain in her voice is more than he can take.

"I already have the ddx solved. If you don't, that's your problem," he says, and leaves her there, to return to his home.

It's quiet here at least. Roz is probably out to shop or run an errand of some kind; only the cat greets him with a questioning chirp, to rub against his legs in hope of a treat or an extra breakfast. Greg bends down to twiddle the little animal's ears, and takes a mild and spurious comfort from the familiar action. When he straightens he goes into the living room. The piano keys feel good under his fingers, smooth and cool. He waits for the music to move from his mind into his body. But for the first time in many years, it doesn't happen. The healing noise in his brain won't go free today.

After some time he hears the kitchen door, and the jangle of Roz's keys as she hangs them up. "Hey," she calls, and he closes his eyes for a moment at the sound of her, the best music in the world. When she comes into the living room he watches her and can't help but feel a sense of relief, though he knows he can't depend on her to make everything right—that's not in her job description. Still, when she gives him a kiss he savors it, glad of the closeness it reveals.

"What happened?" she asks, and the concern in her cool, dark voice eases him in the most curious way.

"Sit," he says, and makes room for her on the bench. She obliges and gives him an inquiring look. "We're . . . working through things."

After a moment she nods. "Okay. I'm listening."

It takes him a while to spill it all out. Once he's done she sits there quietly. "Come on," she says after a minute or so, and gets to her feet.

"What—"

"I think Prof is wrong this time, but you and Sarah have both pushed him hard after he came a long way and he's too tired to see it," Roz says simply. "You both need to finish this game, but you also need someone to kick you back into play when you hit the foul line. I'm volunteering."

He won't admit he's pleased by her successful use of a sports metaphor, because he knows she did it to tease him. "Why can't we tell my shrink to come over here?"

"Because you might be packed full of cinnamon rolls, but I haven't had one yet." Roz offers him a slight smile, and her green eyes gleam with humor. "Let's go, buster."


	7. Chapter 7

It was a beautiful morning. Sarah could appreciate that much while she pinned sheets to the line and did her best not to replay earlier events. She tried hard to keep her awareness in her body—the feel of warm sunlight on her arms, the smell of freshly-cut grass, the rustle of the breeze in the new leaves. But she still felt a sense of abandonment. Gene and now Prof were gone, Jason hadn't showed his face for two days now, and Greg . . . She sighed as she stuck a pin in place and bent down to get another sheet. At least the beds would smell nice. It was a small, even miniscule comfort, but she'd take it.

"So that's why you picked a fight. You just wanted to get rid of us all so you could do housework."

Sarah straightened and faced Greg. Roz stood next to him. She had his hand in hers; she looked relaxed, as if she and her husband were out for a pleasant stroll. "Good morning," she said quietly. "Do you have time to talk for a while?"

"She's only here for the cinnamon rolls," Greg said. Sarah studied both him and Roz, and took her time.

"Go on in," she said at last. "I'll be there in a few minutes."

"How about I help you get the rest of the laundry on the line?" Roz said. Greg rolled his eyes.

"Gee Greg, why don't you make yourself scarce while we talk about the mess you created?" he said.

Sarah gave Greg a steady look. "You don't know what you're talking about."

"Oh fine, delusional too. You've got your work cut out for you," he said to Roz, and stumped off to the kitchen. Roz shook her head.

"I don't know who should win the prize for Most Pig-headed, him or you," she said wryly. "Anyway, I'm here to help if you're up for it. I know you've already been through the wringer once this morning." She moved to the basket and selected a sheet, shook it out, and took it to the line to pin it in place. "Hey, I used a washing metaphor. Go me."

Sarah felt a smile tug at her lips. "You're as bad as he is."

"In my own way, yeah. It's the secret of our success." Roz finished the sheet and took the last one from the basket. "But you already knew that. We wouldn't be such good friends if you didn't."

"Who's supposed to be the shrink here?" Sarah picked up the basket. Roz flashed her a grin. The dappled sunlight moved over her strong features, softened them to reveal the quiet beauty so often hidden by her practical nature.

"I had to learn to analyze. It was self-defense," she said as she pinned the last corner of the sheet, and Sarah couldn't help but laugh. She dumped the basket, went to Roz and gave her a hug, a gesture her friend returned immediately.

"I'm so scared," Sarah said finally. She hadn't meant to say it, but the words came out before she could stop them. Roz gave her a gentle squeeze.

"How could you not be? This is a mess."

Sarah sighed. "Don't give it to me gently. Tell me what you really think."

"There's no point in dressing it up," Roz said. She put an arm around Sarah's shoulders. "Let's go talk about it."

When they entered the kitchen, it was to find Greg with a pot of coffee, freshly brewed. "Slacking," he said, but didn't turn around. "Not a damn thing to eat or drink in this barren desert devoid of nutrients."

"Because a giant locust ate most of it an hour ago," Sarah said. "I have other things to do than run a twenty-four hour diner for someone with a perfectly good kitchen at home."

Greg slapped the lid down on the coffeemaker and turned to face her. "So that's my fault too." He darted a glance at Roz. She looked back at him calmly. "Nothing to say?" he said harshly. "Not gonna take your best girlfriend's side?"

"Nope," she said. "You two need to get this sorted out. Have at it."

"So you're the ump," Sarah said slowly.

"More like a referee. As I said to genius here, I just kick you back into play." Roz went to the dish rack and selected a small plate and a butter knife, then went to the pan and took the last roll just as her husband reached in to get it.

"Mine!" Greg glared at her.

"How many have you had already? And you ate breakfast with me earlier too. You'll put love handles on your love handles," Roz said. Sarah felt another smile try to form and understood Roz's method; she joked around as a way to let them both know she was okay with the proceedings, and to distance herself from the seriousness of the situation.

"Fine, steal from me. Where do we want to hold this hootenanny?" Greg wanted to know. He'd moved to the fridge and to take out ingredients for a sandwich.

Roz put some butter on the roll, cut it in half, and went to the coffeemaker. "That's up to you and Sarah."

"Oh, not good. I vote for someplace other than the kitchen. Too many opportunities for mayhem."

Sarah raised a brow. "Should I be worried?"

Greg slapped some roast beef atop a slice of bread. "I was thinking of my own hide."

"I have no reason to go after you." That earned her a direct, cynical look. "Oh, come on. I thought—" She paused as emotion swamped her unexpectedly. "I thought we were friends."

"You are," Roz said before Greg could answer. "If you weren't, you both wouldn't be hurting so much."

No one had anything to say to that for a few moments. "I'm just peachy," Greg muttered, and dumped three slices of cheese atop the roast beef.

"I live with you, so I know that's a lie," Roz said. She took a seat at the breakfast counter and sipped her coffee. "Gene would probably say the same thing about Sare."

Sarah thought of the pain and sadness in Gene's eyes. "Yeah, he would."

"If you think kissing up to the ref will give you the game, think again," Greg said. "She lets you win, she sleeps on her side of the bed with no benefits for the next year, which presumes I make it that long with all this _agita_."

"I don't decide who wins this," Roz said in an equable tone. "That's up to the two of you. Like I said, I just keep the ball in play and push you both off the foul line if needed." She took another sip of coffee and broke a chunk off her roll. "I'm ready whenever you are."

"Before we start, I need Greg's permission to talk about things that might only have come up in our sessions. I'll ask first before I say anything, but that has to be clear first," Sarah said. Greg snorted.

"It probably won't be anything wifey hasn't heard anyway, but at least I have proof in front of a witness that you're hopelessly anal."

Roz picked up her mug. "Fine by me. You both know I won't say anything about this, all proceedings are confidential."

Sarah dunked her teabag one last time, removed it and gave her tea a stir. "Okay," she said, and gathered her courage. "Why did you tell Jason about writing papers?"

There was a brief silence. "I presume you're talking to me," Greg said finally. He took a seat at the counter, and kept Roz between Sarah and himself. His limp, usually so slight as to be non-existent, was more pronounced. Sarah didn't think he did it for effect, but it was a good gauge of his emotional distress, along with the use his wife as a protector. _You're scared too_, she thought.

"Right first time," she said aloud—one of Prof's Brit bits, as Gene called them. "I want a straight answer."

"I gave you one when you asked way back at the beginning," he snapped. "The kid needed money for basics."

"There are other ways," Sarah said evenly. "You know it. If he had time to write papers then he could have done any of the work-study programs—"

"Grading papers for some washed-up shmuck who pretends to be a department head, while he lets his grad students teach his classes as he jacks off in his office and drinks a fifth for lunch? Don't think so." Greg bit into his sandwich.

"That's what _you_ wouldn't do. Jason washed dishes and cleaned up at Lou's through high school to earn extra money," Sarah said. She could feel anger rise up in her. "He's not afraid of hard work—"

"You assumed he was okay with it because he just did it without complaining. You never asked him why." Greg glanced at Roz. She ate another chunk of roll and gave him no reaction. He frowned at her and continued. "It might surprise you to discover the main reason he worked his ass off all that time."

"We talked to him about it more than once." Sarah tried not to sound defensive. "He said he wanted to help."

"Of course he did." Greg took an enormous bite of sandwich, chewed, swallowed. "He had no way of knowing you and Goldman wouldn't eventually get tired of his freeloading and kick him out if he didn't contribute. You could say you loved and wanted him all you liked, but the fact remains that he came to you from a house full of humans worth approximately nothing, who considered him worth about that much too." He picked up his mug. "Sound familiar?"

She saw it then, the projection she'd put on her son, the worries and fears she'd known and assumed he did too; the enormity of her blind spot took her breath away. She was better than this, she knew how not to do this . . . and she'd done it all the same. That it had been done in love only made things worse.

"And the light bulb clicks on," Greg said under his breath. "Took you long enough."

"Okay," Sarah said. She struggled to set this new knowledge aside for in-depth study later. "Okay, you're right, dammit. But that . . . that doesn't answer my question to you."

"Already answered it."

"You point out my mistake but won't acknowledge your own? I don't think so."

"Wasn't a mistake." Greg sipped his coffee. His vivid blue gaze caught hers, slid away.

"What was it then?" she asked quietly. "Flipping the bird to me and Gene because you couldn't do it to your parents back in the day? Or is that another reason why you cheated and got dumped out of school twice?"

"You know, you're usually not this slow on the uptake." Greg moved his mug to make the contents swirl. "Think about it."

Sarah went over his words, to pause at the mention of 'department head'. "Wait—you mean the guy who was supposed to counsel Jason and help him out didn't do either one?" The anger deep within began to grow. "And you kept that from me too?"

"I didn't say anything because it's the kid's problem to deal with, not yours, not mine." Greg stared into the coffee as it moved in a slow spiral in his mug. "He's gonna deal with jerks and assholes on a daily basis once he gets a practice going. If he doesn't learn to stand up for himself now he might as well stop and go back to washing dishes at Lou's."

"All of which still doesn't tell me why you told him to write papers," Sarah said, and let her anger show. "You just tossed it at him—" She stopped, floored by the third revelation in as many minutes. "It was a test. You wanted to see if he'd do it." Greg didn't look up. "That's it, isn't it?"

"You're supposed to guard the foul line," Greg said to Roz, who looked back at him with an impassive expression.

"I am," she said simply. Greg gave a loud sigh.

"So the damn game's rigged. I knew it."

"No it isn't," Roz said. She smiled just a little. "But here's some advice: if you're as smart as I know you are, you'll answer her."

"Oh, great." He returned his gaze to his coffee. "What are you gonna do if I say 'yes'?"

"Just tell me you had a reason to test him this way, to risk his fellowship, his career. And it better be a damn good reason." This time she let her anger show. Greg lifted his head.

"I don't have to justify my teaching methods to you," he said, and he was angry now too. "I don't care if it makes you feel like a lousy parent—"

"Foul," Roz said. "Cast your Charms to disarm only. No personal attacks."

"Not a personal attack, just the truth," Greg said. "You should be disqualified for quoting from those stupid books. Jack Cannon rules, that's all I'm sayin'."

"Greg." It took all Sarah's self-control not to shout at him. "Did it ever occur to you that Jason has more at stake by doing this than you ever did?"

His eyes widened a fraction before he looked away, but she saw the flinch all the same. Just that fast her anger faded; she could feel it fall away, and even if a small part of her wanted to hang onto it, the larger part felt profound relief.

"Careful," Roz said. Sarah nodded.

"I'm trying to be. It wasn't meant as a smack-down. I'm not saying Jason is worth more to me or Gene," she said, and kept her tone away from gentleness. Greg would construe it as pity and she'd lose him. "You will always be my oldest boy, you know that. No one could ever take your place. But when you cheated, you knew it wouldn't matter all that much because John had already written you off, that miserable son of a bitch. Jason . . ." She hesitated, but she knew she had to say it. "Jason will never be written off by either me or Gene, no matter what happens. I'm angry about what happened and how you all handled it, whether you like it or not. But it's mainly because this has been Jason's goal for a long time now. He's wanted this with everything in him, he's said that a number of times and I don't doubt him. I want this for him, and so does Gene."

"So you're saying if the ankle-biter decided to chuck it all and go back to washing dishes, you'd be okay with that?" Greg said harshly. "I call bullshit."

"If it was what he really wanted, yeah. I'd be okay with it." Sarah set aside her tepid tea. "You and I were lucky enough to find work we felt passionate about—it's true," she said over Greg's groan. "You've said plenty of times that diagnosis is your one great gift, and you've used it well. I want that for Jason too. If he decides he'd rather—"

"What's going on?"

Jason stood in the mudroom doorway. Sarah paused. A jolt of shock went through her, followed closely by concern, joy, and exasperation all nicely mixed in a tangled mess.

"About time you showed up," House said. He shot a look at Roz, who looked back at him calmly. "A little Italian bird told you to come home, no doubt."

"No," Jason said. He took a step into the kitchen, but no farther. Sarah realized he was afraid.

"Come in and sit down," she said in a firm tone. Gentleness would lose him too; he was like Greg that way, mistrustful of anyone who showed compassion without a good reason, in their minds at least. Jason stayed where he was.

"If it's all right with Greg and Sarah, I'd like you to join the discussion," Roz said. "And if you don't mind, I have a couple of questions for you. Are you up for this?"

Jason considered what she'd said, then nodded. He came into the room but didn't sit down. Instead he leaned against the counter and folded his arms, his gaze directed toward the floor.

"Okay, thanks," Roz said. She glanced at Sarah, then at Greg. Her husband rolled his eyes but said nothing.

"Of course it's all right with me," Sarah said. She'd hoped this would happen, but knew it had to be Jason's choice to show up. Coercion would make him shut down, and much as a part of her wanted to force the issue, she knew it was the worst method to consider. She pushed the urge aside and waited to see what Roz would do. She felt helpless, even as she knew it was the impulse to control events that fought to be heard.

"Okay," Roz said again. She faced Jason. "Why did you write the papers?"

Jason lifted his head a bit. He didn't answer right away. "For the money."

"There's more to it than that," Roz said quietly. "What else?" And she said nothing more, just waited. Sarah didn't dare to look at Jason in case she intimidated him into silence.

"Why do you say that?" Jason said finally.

"I know you," Roz said with a slight smile. "There's always a good reason behind everything you do, though that reason might seem valid only to you. You wrote papers for more than just the money."

After a moment Jason moved to one of the stools and perched on it. He looked as if he'd take off at the slightest excuse, but at least he'd unbent enough to come into the circle of participants. "There are a lot of people in school who don't know how to write a paper," he said. "I wouldn't have known how to write one either, if Mandy hadn't shown me. So I . . . I took her method and used it to teach people how to do it."

Sarah blinked. "What?" Even Greg looked surprised.

"They had to get the raw data and decide on the thesis. I took what they gave me and made a sample copy."

"That doesn't mean they didn't just pass your sample off as theirs," Greg said.

"They had to promise not to," Jason said. Greg groaned.

"_Jesus_. All my work's been for nothing. You can_not_ be this naïve."

"How did you prevent them from doing that?" Roz's smile widened a little at Jason's startled glance. "My husband might think you're too trusting, but I know you had this thought out."

"Well, yeah," Jason said simply. "You're supposed to have a viable plan with options in case something goes wrong." He sent Greg a direct look. "That's what you've always taught me, anyway."

"So enlighten us," Greg said, but now he looked interested.

"I hacked the department head's homework unit drive," Jason said simply. "I had copies of the samples so I could compare them to the papers people submitted. Only a couple of them plagiarized my copy word for word. So I deleted their papers and substituted the same number of pages, just with content created by a random-generator app."

Silence fell. Sarah didn't know what to say; she wanted to laugh, cry, let her head explode. The whole thing was pure Jason, from start to finish.

"I take it all back. Niiiiice," Greg said, and his genuine admiration was clear. "Does the titular head know about this?"

"Of course not. I wouldn't tell that moron jack shit," Jason said with some scorn. Greg snorted a laugh, sent a look Sarah's way. _You should be proud_, that look said. Sarah gave him a quelling glare and got raised brows in response.

"So no one knows about this but you and the people whose papers you yanked," she said.

"Yes." Jason hesitated, then looked at her. "Mom, I'm not making excuses for what I did. I just tried to help people who really needed it. They were good students, I made sure."

"Jason, I don't think this is cheating," Roz said. "You didn't actually write those papers, you just acted as an unofficial tutor."

"Hacked into the head's office unit," Greg reminded her. _Playing devil's advocate_, Sarah thought absently, and realized she was in shock for the second time in a week.

"That's a separate issue," Roz said. "He didn't hack into the drive to cheat, he did it to check on his customers. You didn't do anything else while you were in there, like change your grades?" she asked Jason. He shook his head and looked a bit offended that she would ask.

"Why didn't you tell us this in the first place?" Sarah fought to keep her voice even. "Why did you let us think you were actually selling papers to people?"

Jason lowered his gaze to the floor once more. "I wanted to say something, but everyone was freaking out. I didn't think you'd listen. So I just said I cheated and that I sold papers to get the worst part of it out of the way so we could talk."

The simple words sank in. Sarah felt them cut deep on their way to her heart; she knew she'd never forget them. "You had to know how that would sound."

"I got paid for it." Jason clasped his hands between his knees, shoulders hunched. "I should have done it for free."

"No, I think you were right to ask for an equal exchange," Roz said. "People tend to value something more if it has a cost." She tilted her head a bit. "What did you do with the money?"

"The first couple of years, I sent it to Dad to help with the loans." Jason darted a look at Sarah, licked his lips. "During my residency I used it for my share of the rent and groceries."

"Oh, Jason . . ." Sarah sighed. "Wasn't there any way you could okay this with someone—a dean, one of the administrators?"

"I tried. I went to another department head. She said I didn't have the qualifications to be a tutor, that I should refer the students who needed help to their counselors." Jason shrugged. "The assigned tutors are always overloaded, they can't take on anyone else. The counselors are usually too busy with their own classes and publishing to do much beyond give you the party lines on what might work. It just seemed wrong not to help when there were people who really needed it, and I needed the money."

Sarah remembered a younger Jason who sat in almost the same spot, and defended his decision to drive to work after he'd been grounded for that very action in the first place. This was her boy, determined to do things the way he thought they should be done despite consequences.

"I have a question," Jason said. Roz nodded.

"Go ahead. This process works both ways."

"Good to know," Greg muttered.

"Okay." Jason's grip on his knees tightened; his knuckles were white. "Mom . . . why did you tell me no when I asked if I could help out?" he said. His voice was harsh with anxiety, a little too loud. "Why wouldn't you talk with me about it?"

Sarah took her time to reply as she tried to find the right words. She was a little surprised to find it wasn't as hard as she thought it would be. "When I went to college, I had no help at all. No grants or scholarships, just a student loan that got bigger every year, with interest added. It took me forever to get it paid off after I got my doctorate, and there were hard times when the loan payments and the rent came first, and there was nothing left over. I had to work two jobs on and off for years, and it was miserable because I had no time to spend with Dad, or do anything except try to fit some sleep and a meal between work schedules." She sighed. "I want better for you because you're my son and I love you. It hurts me to think you'd have to struggle that hard."

"You're still mad at Dad," Jason said to the floor.

"That's between me and him," Sarah said. "We'll work it out. It isn't the first time we've had an argument and it won't be the last." She stood slowly and favored her sore hip. "I'm presuming you haven't told the committee about what really went on."

Jason shook his head. "They're still gathering evidence."

"Well you're the primary source. They need to hear about what happened from you, not someone else." Sarah moved to stand by Jason. She put her hand on his shoulder. "Understand I'm not tellin' you what to do. But it's my opinion you'd be better off to go back to Boston and give the right people the truth, all of it. You can come back here while you wait to find out what they decide."

Greg groaned. "Such a Girl Scout. Kid, you tell them about that hack, your ass is grass and they're the brush hog that'll end up making you a therapy sax player for some hospice in East Bumfuck."

"That could happen, yeah," Sarah said. "But if he hides the truth, it'll come out sooner or later. It always does. You should know that better than anyone." She gave Jason's shoulder a little caress. "You might want to take someone with you if you decide to go."

Jason's hand came up to cover hers. "Okay."

"This isn't done," Sarah said softly. "I need to talk with your dad, and the three of us will sit down together eventually. I might ask for Roz's help," she offered a smile to her friend. "She should hang out a shingle."

"Nah, too much like work," Roz said, and returned Sarah's smile.

"I'm outta here," Greg said, and hopped off the stool. He avoided Sarah's look and headed through the mudroom door. Roz got up too.

"He'll talk with you in his own time and way," she said. "But you already knew that." She reached in and gave Sarah a one-armed hug, kissed her cheek. "Let me know if I can help again."

The kitchen was quiet with the Houses gone. Sarah took her mug of tea to the sink. "Do you need anything at the barn?" she said. "I can bring you some clean sheets and restock the fridge, if you want."

"You don't have to." Jason came up next to her. "If—if you don't mind, I'd like to stay out there a little longer." Sarah nodded; she didn't trust her voice. "Okay, thanks." And he was gone.

She stood at the sink a long time as she washed a mug long since clean, and went over the events of the last two hours. She struggled to come to terms with the information she'd learned, and her own part in the chain of events. Finally she rinsed the mug, set it in the rack, wiped her hands dry, and picked up her link to make two calls. Both of them had identical messages.

"When you come home, I'd like to talk."


	8. Chapter 8

It's a quiet evening at the Houses place. Well, it's not like they whoop it up with sex, drugs and loud music every night, at least not anymore. Okay, not ever, to Greg's eternal disappointment—still, they've had some good times all the same.

But tonight his wife is tired. She actually droops a bit, like a wilted flower. He'd made an executive decision and sent out for pizza and sides while she dozed on the couch, snuggled into the corner with Hellboy and a pillow. Greg won't admit to himself that it makes him anxious to see this sign of age in his woman. She's in the autumn of her life while he's firmly in the winter of his, and he doesn't want to think about what that eventually means for them both. But for now they're still above ground, and she needs him to look after her.

When dinner arrives, he's the one to get everything ready for once. He sets it up buffet style on the kitchen table, fills his plate and loads another, and takes them out to the living room. Roz wakes when he sits next to her. He hands her the plate with a careful flourish.

"Compliments of the house," he says, pun intended. She accepts it and looks over the contents. He's ordered half of the pizza with all the nasty vegetables she likes, extra olive oil and sauce. There's _antipasto_ as a side dish too. How a human being can voluntarily eat so many healthy foods in one meal is beyond him, but he does appreciate the result. She is still slender, with smooth soft golden skin and the thick, sable-black hair he loves; a few wrinkles and lines here and there, granted, but they only enhance her beauty in his eyes. He knows that's a sign he's besotted, but what the hell, he's allowed that knowledge, even if he never says it out loud.

She picks up the slice and takes a big bite, closes her eyes in apparent bliss. "Mmm . . ." Her eyelashes flutter just a little, a tiny physical quirk of which he never tires. "Thank you so much for this," she says around the mouthful of food.

"I felt like eating someone else's cooking," he says, and she smiles at him.

"Me too." She takes another bite of pizza.

When they're replete and drowsy, cuddled together on the couch to watch the ball game, with the cat draped over the back of the couch on the blanket, Roz says "You were pretty quiet today."

Immediately his good mood evaporates. He doesn't want to analyze the events of the big smackdown, not now, not ever. "Nothing to say."

"Oh, you had plenty to say. You just didn't want to lose your foster mom and kitchen privileges." She sweetens this verdict with a kiss to his jawline. "You won't, you know. She loves you too much for some strange reason."

"So do you," he dares to point out.

"Yup, so do I," she says without hesitation, and then falls silent. She holds his hand though, so he takes that as a good sign.

"Jason will have to answer for hacking that computer," she says after a while. "That's gonna cost him the fellowship."

"You play, you pay." He rubs the back of her hand with his thumb, massages the base of her shortened little finger. There are arthritic changes started there, he can feel them in the enlargement of the joint, so he keeps his touch gentle. "The kid knew the risks."

"Because you told him." There's no accusation or heat in her words, but she wants the truth. Greg sighs.

"You're not gonna lecture me on the responsibilities of a mentor and all that crap, are you?"

She doesn't answer right away. "I can see your point of view. I can see Sarah's too, and Jason's. You all keep trying to turn this into right versus wrong. It doesn't work that way."

Now he's intrigued. "Explain."

Roz rests her head against his shoulder, a familiar gesture. "Everyone's looking at this situation from their own moral and emotional viewpoint, instead of just reviewing Jason's actions and the probable consequences first. Talking to Jason was necessary because he's the one at the center of everything, and it's important to know what he was thinking when he decided on the course of action that's causing all the trouble now. We needed the facts, not just what everyone presumed he'd done." She stretches a bit and yawns. "If you think of it as a sort of equation, it makes the process much clearer."

He has to chuckle at that—his wife, ever the mathematician. "So you've got us all figured out."

"Not likely." She snuggles in just a little closer. Silence falls once more, with only the voices of the game's color commentators murmuring in the soft semi-darkness.

"So that's it?" he says finally. "I know you're dying to tell me what to do."

"Am not," she says. She sounds a little drowsy now. "You already know what you're gonna do."

"What's that?" he says, amused and a little apprehensive at the same time.

"Go to Boston with Jason," she says simply. "It's getting late, _amante_. Let's go to bed, we can catch the rest of this game tomorrow. Our team's gonna lose anyway, they stink on ice this year."

He considers her simple pronouncement while they get ready for bed. Once they're settled in and the lights are out, the cat curled up at their feet (on Greg's bathrobe, of course), he says "There's no point in my going to Boston. In fact, my being there would probably make things worse."

Roz faces him. He knows she's tired, that she's more than ready to just drop into sleep, but she answers without hesitation. "Because you think your reputation and your own expulsions from school will count against anything you say."

"Succinct as always."

She puts a hand on his chest. "You are more than your worst experiences and impulses," she says. "More people know that than you realize."

Greg lies in the dark for a long time after she falls asleep, thinks over what she's said, remembers things he's done his best to hold at bay for well over fifty years now. Gradually he drifts off as his memories fade into the dark, where they belong, and where he can so seldom keep them.

_(Music filled the quiet room, low, slow and blue, but with a sly wink of humor in it all the same. Greg sat at the battered old upright as he tickled the yellowed ivories, and wished he had the band around him to sit in on a classic groove._

"_Great tune," Hawkeye said. He ambled over and sat his lean frame into the chair next to the piano, stretched a little, folded his hands over his belly and tipped his head back. Greg stopped._

"_You can't be here. You're dead."_

_Hawkeye opened one eye. "Astute observation. You wanted to talk to me, here I am."_

"_I'm not talking to some piece of my own brain. Been there, done that in abundance. Nothing good ever comes of it." He began to play again__._

"_You're already doing it," Hawkeye pointed out. "Might as well keep going." He closed his eye. "What's on your mind, junior?"_

"_Harhar. You're a decaying corpse full of laughs." Greg let the riff roll out under his fingers before he spoke again. "I'm in trouble."_

"_You're not. The kid is." Hawkeye crossed his ankles. "This isn't about you."_

"_I'm his mentor." Greg rolled out the melody long and slow. _

"_Yeah, which means you bear some of the responsibility for Jason's choice to write papers. You did give him the information, after all. But it was his decision to write them, not yours." _

_Greg waited, but nothing else was forthcoming. "When's the other shoe gonna drop?"_

"_It isn't your shoe to worry about," Hawkeye said. "Not unless you have three feet. I'd like to think my genetics are a little better than that."_

"_So the kid pays the full price for that pair of footwear." Greg let his hands rest on the keys. _

"_Greg, he's not you. You cheated for several reasons, but mainly to flip the bird to anyone in authority who might be watching. Which, by the way, makes you a chip right off my block." Hawkeye shifted a bit. "Jason was trying to help people. But that doesn't mean he didn't understand the possible consequences of his actions. He just figured it would be worth it."_

_Greg began playing again. "So you're saying concern is pointless."_

"_No, I'm saying give the kid a little credit. He can deal with what happens, and he'll adjust to whatever changes might be coming his way. So when you go with him—"_

"_Haven't said I would yet."_

"—_when you go with him, go because you're gonna stand with him, not just to resolve your own guilt." Hawkeye tipped his head back. "Got any beer? I'd die for a cold one."_

"_Hyuk yuk yuk. Beer's in the fridge, help yourself." Greg continued the song as Hawkeye got up and ambled into the house, to return with two bottles. Without comment he passed one to Greg and resumed his seat._

"_So what d'you think the committee will do?" Hawkeye took a swig of beer. He swallowed and sighed. "Nectar of the gods."_

"_He's lost his shot at the fellowship, possibly for a couple of years, more likely for good." Greg finished with a flourish and took up his bottle. "There's no question about that. If he gets off light it'll be a letter of reprimand as well, and they'll pretend the hack never took place. Unfortunately the department head doesn't like him, so the hack is more than likely on the table__,__ and that could be real trouble. It's a potential criminal charge, not just a policy breach."_

_They sat in silence for a minute or two, as they took long swallows of cold beer. "How's the kid holding up?" Hawkeye said._

"_Worried. Scared he's gonna be kicked out of the family. Afraid his dream is dead now. Not sure if he's worth anyone's help." Greg finished his beer, set the bottle on the piano. _

"_Tough spot to be in." Hawkeye glanced at him, his blue eyes keen. "As you well know."_

_Greg shook his head. "Wasn't like this. My old man knew I was a fuckup from the start."_

"_Then he was wrong." The anger in Hawkeye's words caught Greg by surprise._

"_Come on, I've been screwing things up since before I can remember—"_

"_Look. I wasn't around when you were growing up, and I'll always regret that even if I couldn't have been a good father to you anyway. But I know you well enough to say with absolute certainty that you are not a fuckup." Hawkeye faced him. "Take that with you when you go with the kid to Boston."_

"_I'm not going to Boston. Dammit, I'm not!"_

"Greg?" It's not his bio-dad speaking now, it's Roz. He feels the remnants of the dream pull away, and for a moment he has a strange desire to step back in and take his wife with him to see Hawkeye. She still mourns the old man's death though it's been years now since his real dad died.

"Uh," he grunts, and closes his eyes.

"You were dreaming. Are you okay?" The quiet concern in her voice eases his anxiety.

"'mfine," he mutters.

"You're worried about going to Boston."

He sighs. "Don't wanna talk about it."

After a moment her small hand touches his cheek. She says nothing more, just settles in behind him—to spoon him, something he's always secretly enjoyed, though usually he's the one who holds her. He likes the feel of her warm body as it cradles his, her soft breath on his skin. In these quiet moments, he lets himself take comfort from the slender, wiry arms that enfold him with such gentleness. It's a respite from the whispers in his head, the if:then thoughts that run without end—dimmed over the last years, but there all the same; a noise he'll take with him to Boston.

'_Lonely Avenue', James Booker_


	9. Chapter 9

_May 11th_

"How long will you stay in Boston?" Mandy took a swallow of her hard cider. Jason set down his bottle of beer and leaned back in the rump-shot patio chair he'd set up next to the woodstove. The barn was quiet at this hour, with only the last beams of sunlight there in the stillness.

"Not sure yet," he said. "We'll see the committee on Monday. Unless they have some reason for me to stay, we'll come back right after the meeting. There's no point in hanging around otherwise."

Neither of them said anything for a while, just listened to Bessie Smith sing about how she wasn't gonna play no second fiddle. "That might be a mistake," Mandy said finally.

"Why?" Jason glanced at her, then away. "They'll probably fall all over themselves to get rid of me."

"Self-pity isn't going to help." Mandy softened the tartness in her words with a slight smile. "This isn't just about what happened. It's politics and workplace dynamics."

"I know that," Jason said, trying not to feel defensive. "But they've already made up their minds—"

"No, _you_ have." Mandy lowered her bottle, cradled it in her hands. "You've decided you're done and that's the end of it. I know you, Jason. You're like your mother, you get an idea in your head and that's where it stays. It's like trying to get rid of an old tree stump in the front yard."

"I'm not being stubborn," Jason said, exasperated. "I know how things are run, you don't."

Mandy studied him for a moment. "So how are things run?"

Jason snorted. "By decree." He drank the last of his beer and took the bottle to the recycle bin, then went to the fridge to get more. "They pontificate, you do what they tell you."

"Well, you didn't," she pointed out. "You wouldn't be facing them now if you'd played by the rules. So what has you worried?"

Jason extracted a fresh beer and turned to face her. "Are you _serious_?"

"Yeah, I am," she said, and sat up a little. "Before you did anything else, you calculated the consequences if you got caught. I know you, you wouldn't have set things up without going over as many possible outcomes as you could configure. So what do you think will happen?"

Jason moved to his chair, sat down. He popped the top on the edge of the stove and took a long swallow of cold beer, let it settle in his belly before he answered her.

"I won't get the fellowship, whatever else happens. They'll make sure to take that away. A letter of reprimand, probably. If they decide to go after me legally for hacking Karlson's—uh, the department head's computer, then . . . I don't know. I'd get handed over to the cops at some point for criminal charges."

"Do you think that's likely?" Mandy asked softly. Jason shrugged.

"Karlson can't stand me, so it's pretty certain he'll push for charges. It depends on what the rest of the committee thinks. They aren't vindictive as a rule, but if they think he's got a valid case, I'll end up in court."

Mandy looked away. "House is going with you. You know he'll be your advocate."

"That's what I'm afraid of." At her quizzical expression Jason sighed. "It's more likely he'll make things worse."

Mandy didn't reply right away. "You know, that's a really stupid thing to say."

"What do you mean?"

"He cares about you. No, I don't mean in a gushy way," she went on when Jason groaned. "He's not built like that and never will be. But he does care. He wouldn't have taken you on as a student if he hadn't seen something in you and thought you were worth the effort. You know House doesn't mess around."

"Bullshit. He messes around all the time," Jason pointed out.

"That's what he wants people to think. If they're idiots or don't use their brains for anything except watching soap vids, it works. You know better and have for years, so stop acting like you don't understand him."

"Maybe he doesn't understand me," Jason snapped. "Maybe none of you do." Mandy raised a brow but said nothing, just drank her cider. Jason glared at her. "I'm right and you don't want to admit it."

"You're wasting a lot of energy taking your anxiety out on whoever's closest," Mandy said. "Not one of your more endearing traits."

She was right, he knew it and he hated the knowledge. He said nothing, just tipped his head back to look up at the rafters.

"Do you want me to go with you tomorrow?" He brought his gaze down to hers. She smiled a little at his surprise. "House doesn't scare me, and neither do you. Maybe you could use a friend."

"Is that all we are? Just friends?" He knew it was a mistake the moment the last word left his lips.

"Yeah, if I remember correctly," Mandy said. She shifted her gaze from his, but he'd seen the flash of emotion in her eyes, the pain, and how he'd hurt her. "You wanted it that way."

"I'm sorry," he said, and meant it.

"I know you are." Her voice was devoid of emotion. "So do you want me to go with you and House?"

"You'd be sitting around in a waiting room drinking crappy coffee for hours."

"No I wouldn't," she said, and managed a faint smile. "We'll stop on the way to get something for breakfast and some decent coffee, and then I'll be talking with my online publisher about the next book. I might even get a few paragraphs written."

Jason's lips twitched. "You don't have to be so damn practical." He took a long pull of beer.

"You don't need me hanging over you. But you do need someone who's there just to be supportive. House is going as your mentor as well as your friend. He is," she insisted when Jason rolled his eyes. "You should stop pretending that's ridiculous, Jay."

"You didn't work with him for years," Jason said. He stretched out his legs and toed off his sneakers, left first, then right. "He's not a friend."

"If you mean he won't slap you on the back and buy you a beer, no," Mandy said. "But he's standing by you when this could cause trouble for him."

"Trouble? What trouble? He's got a reputation better than God's. People at school found out I worked with him and they acted like I was the chosen one. It caused problems for me more times than I can count."

Mandy put down her cider but didn't speak right away. "That's an incredibly ignorant thing to say," she said eventually. "You know why House came here in the first place all those years ago. He gave your mom permission to tell us if we ever asked. That must have been a difficult decision for him, he's intensely private about his history and for good reason as it turns out. Yet here you sit, acting like he's never had any trouble or problems in his life. And by the way, you are _not_ the chosen one. Not even close." She sounded genuinely upset.

"Hey," Jason said. He sat up straight, a bit indignant at her scolding. "I know I'm not, okay? If anything this whole stupid mess proves that beyond any doubt. As for House—" He paused, unsure of how to say what he was thinking. "Maybe when he first came to Mom, he had problems . . ."

"You don't pay attention. Why do guys never pay attention?" Mandy finished off her cider. Her cheeks were a bit flushed; she didn't drink much and it only took one bottle to get her a little buzzed, something Jason secretly found rather charming. "Haven't you watched him with your mom since you came home? His anxiety levels are way up. You can tell because he's working overtime to piss people off, push them away. He does that when he thinks he needs to defend himself or hang onto something he cares about. Right now I think he's scared he'll lose his family. He's got Roz, but your parents and you are the closest thing he has to a mom and dad and a brother." Mandy stood, swayed a bit, and went to the fridge.

"He doesn't see me as a brother," Jason said in protest. "I'm more like the dumbest student in a remedial reading class."

Mandy got another cider and twisted off the top. "No, that's how you see yourself and he knows it," she said. "House is good at using peoples insecurities against them." She made her way back to her chair and plopped into it, took a long swallow of cider and relaxed against the cushions.

"So how does he see you?" Jason was careful not to look at her.

"He calls me Hermione." She laughed softly. Jason snorted and drank some beer.

"You've got him all figured out," he said. Mandy gave him a wry look.

"Not even close, but I'm a writer so I get some things right. A big part of my job is observation." She kept watching him. "Do you want me to come with you and House tomorrow or not?"

He didn't answer her right away. Instead he set aside his beer and stood, to kneel in front of the woodstove. He opened the door, took kindling and a log from the basket on the hearth, and set up a fire. Once it was well-started he said "Yes. I'd—I'd like you to come with us tomorrow." He closed the door, set the damper to draw slow, and resumed his seat. Mandy said nothing. She reached over, took his hand. Her small, clever fingers curled around his.

"You should go home," Jason said after a while. He didn't really want her to leave, but to ask her to stay . . . it was selfish and cruel, and a minefield he didn't want to walk through right now.

"I should," Mandy said. "Maybe I don't want to."

"It's not a good idea, you staying."

She made a sound that could have been a laugh. "It never was."

He made one last effort. "You've been drinking. So have I."

"Two ciders for me, two beers for you, big deal. I'm a little buzzed but I know what I'm asking. Maybe you do too, for once." She gave his hand a gentle squeeze to take the sting out of her words.

After a time they lay together in the big bed, snuggled under the covers because it was chilly now, even with the woodstove's heat. There was another way to warm up however, and they employed it gladly. Jason brought Mandy close. His hands eased over her generous curves as she sighed and moved with him. He loved being here with her in the flickering light, the soft rustle of the leaves outside a quiet background as she said his name and wrapped her legs around his, smiled up at him, her beautiful face flushed and joyous.

"I don't know . . ." he said later, as they faced each other. Mandy moved a lock of his hair to tuck it behind his ear, a familiar gesture.

"What don't you know?"

Jason sighed. "I don't know why I can't . . . be with you," he said, unable to find the words. He trailed his fingers over her arm, leaned in to brush her lips with his. He tasted salt and drew back in mild concern.

"It's all right," Mandy said, and wiped her cheek. "Just me being stupid."

"It's not stupid at all." Jason rested his cheek against her hair. "I'm sorry."

"Jay, I know you love me, and I love you. But it isn't simple, and it isn't enough. It never really was." She let go a long breath. "You have things you need to do before you decide to belong to anyone. They're part of your dream, you've wanted them for a long time. It's okay."

He knew that was a lie, but the fact that she was still willing to say it humbled him. He brought her a little closer and put his hand on her cheek, and enjoyed the touch of her soft skin under his palm.

"We'll get breakfast and decent coffee in the morning," he said, and felt Mandy's smile there in the soft dark.

_'I Ain't Gonna Play No Second Fiddle,' Bessie Smith_


	10. Chapter 10

_May 12th_

Jason entered the code on the back door and slipped inside when the lock released. It was barely sunrise, the light faint and grey; no one should be up—but he smelled fresh coffee the moment he entered the mudroom, as well as the familiar fragrance of cinnamon rolls. Of course Mom would know they'd be on their way early, and would offer breakfast.

She stood at the counter with her back to him as she made a cup of tea. The sight of her brought an unexpected lump to his throat. Bundled in her shabby chenille bathrobe over a sleep shirt and flannel pants, she looked the same as always. It was only when she turned and he saw the impassive expression that he realized she was scared. His own apprehension faded. Whatever lay between them, he wouldn't leave for Boston with this cold distance between them. He set down his duffle and went to her. Her face brightened; without a word she opened her arms and took him to her, held him close. Jason returned her embrace and knew a deep sense of shame. "I didn't mean to stay away so long," he said. "Mom . . . I'm sorry."

"Shh . . ." She gave him a gentle squeeze. "You have enough to deal with, going to Boston. When you come home, we'll talk and get everything straightened out. Right now you just need to be home for a little while." She rubbed his back. "I made you some breakfast."

Jason had taken the first roll out of the pan when Dad came into the kitchen. He looked tired, but better than he had a few days ago. He went to Mom, put his arm around her. Jason was glad to see Mom lift her face for Dad's kiss. They stood together for a few moments; then Dad let her go, took a plate from the rack and came over to the counter where the pan full of rolls waited. He glanced at Jason but said nothing. Up close it was easier to see the lines of worry and sleeplessness, but Dad gave him a slight smile all the same. "You up for this?" he said softly.

"Guess it doesn't matter if I am or not," Jason said.

"If you're not ready to go back we'll work out something else. You have some choice," Dad said, and put a hand on Jason's shoulder as Gordon showed up, sleepy and tousled.

"Now that's what I like to see," he said in a mild tone. "Any hope for a cup of tea?"

Prof took his cuppa with him to his room. For everyone else breakfast was a quiet meal, enjoyed while early morning sunshine crept in and the sky outside slowly brightened. Jason was on his second cup of coffee when he heard the code punched in at the mudroom door. A few moments later House stood in the doorway and glowered at them.

"Good morning," Mom said before House could speak. "Come in and have breakfast. I know Roz didn't feed you, so we can't have you starving to death on the way to Boston."

House raised his brows. "Sarcasm," he said. "Offense, not defense. Nicely played." He came into the kitchen, moved to the coffeemaker. "Booze would make this taste even better."

"You know where the liquor's kept around here," Mom said, and Jason realized this was some kind of game between her and House, a sort of one-upmanship they both needed to play out. "Help yourself."

For answer House grabbed a mug and stumped over to the cabinet where the hard stuff was stored. He rummaged around, brought out a bottle of Jack Daniels. House examined it with a critical eye. "Better than nothing," was his verdict. He opened the bottle, poured a generous amount in the mug, put the bottle—still open—back in the cupboard, and returned to the coffeemaker. Mom stayed where she was.

"I take it Jason's driving," she said. House snorted as he stirred his coffee and took a sip.

"Ah," he smacked his lips. "Nectar of the cheap-whiskey gods." He eyed Mom over his cup. "The car's driving. You know Barbarella's got all the up-to-date fancy doo-dads required by the fascisti in these modern times."

"Someone has to sit behind the wheel," Mom pointed out. "It's not gonna be you if you have a slug of hard liquor in you."

House took a defiant gulp of coffee and swallowed loudly. Jason rolled his eyes.

"I'll drive," he said. "It's not like I haven't done this milk run a dozen times before."

"It's my vehicle, I decide who takes her out," House snapped. He glared at Jason. "We wouldn't be doing this at all if you hadn't been sloppy."

"That's enough," Dad said. It was the first time he'd spoken up in nearly a week. "Either Jason or Mandy does the driving, or we hold a 3D meeting in the living room and the hell with the expense." He gave House a direct look. "You took the drink, stop bitchin'." It was clear Dad meant more than just the alcohol, but to Jason's surprise House relaxed a little.

"I think you've been lying to us all this time. You were an MP in some nice cushy rear-echelon job," he said, but a corner of his mouth quirked up for a moment.

"Yeah, you keep on thinkin' that," Dad said, but Jason heard unspoken humor in the stern words. "Sit down and eat." Even as he said it they heard the front door code. A moment later Mandy came to the doorway with her overnight bag in hand. House slapped two rolls on a plate and took a last swallow of coffee.

"The gang's all here," he said. "Time to go." He sauntered to the doorway, plate in hand, and waited until Mandy moved aside before he continued on. Mandy shook her head.

"Are you ready?" she asked Jason. He nodded. His gut tightened on the knowledge that this was really happening, he was on his way to face a situation that had seemed so easy to deal with in theory . . .

"Jason," Mom said softly. He didn't look at her; a new wave of guilt pushed through him at the knowledge of what he'd put her and Dad through. "Whatever happens, this is your home and we are your parents. We love you, you know that." She hesitated. "Tell the truth and don't let your fear get the better of you. _M'chridhe_," she said, and the old endearment made his heart ache. "Do your best, and come home to us. We'll be waiting."

Prof waited for them at the front door. "I shan't keep you," he said. "Undoubtedly your very fine parents have reassured you of love and hearth for your return and rightly so. I'll just add this: stand by your actions."

"But you think I was wrong," Jason said.

"My dear boy, it doesn't matter what I think, or anyone else for that matter. You are the one who chose the course. It's up to you to have the courage of your convictions. If you don't, no one else will care to understand why you acted as you did." Gordon patted his shoulder. "Give them your viewpoint, but resist the temptation to argue. I'll see you when you return, and we'll talk then."

Barbarella waited at the top of the drive, pulled in by the front porch. House sat in the middle of the back seat, his head tipped back, hands folded over his middle. Jason took Mandy's overnight bag and his duffle and stowed them in the trunk, then climbed in. The old car was gleamed in the morning sunlight, its paint still pristine. Mandy got in next to him. "Shotgun," she said cheerfully, and took out a pair of sunglasses. She put them on with a flourish. "It's a hunnert an' six miles to Chicago, we got a full tanka gas, half packa cigarettes, it's dark, and we're wearing sunglasses," she said in what was clearly intended to be an imitation of Dan Ackroyd's accent.

"Hit it!" House said from the back seat. When Jason looked at him in the rear view mirror, the older man wore sunglasses too. House smirked at him and gave him a little flutter of the fingers in greeting as Mandy chuckled. She reached down and turned on the music link. A moment later Robert Johnson began to sing.

"Jesus H tapdancing Christ," Jason muttered. He eased the car down the driveway and on the road.

'_Crossroad', Robert Johnson_


	11. Chapter 11

It is an interesting experience, to watch a journey unfold from the back seat of a car.

Greg remembers other trips, most far longer than this one, some of them conducted in other countries, the memories decades old now, but still fresh in his mind. Of course then circumstances had been different. He'd been an unlikeable, insatiably curious child, and not given much more consideration than the luggage stacked on either side of him. In those days even seat belts for the back seat had been non-existent, so he'd curled up against the softest item available and amused himself in any way he could find—he watched the scenery go by during the day, and made up stories in his head about the houses and farms and cities they passed, basing his conclusions based on the things he saw in back yards, side windows, the people on forgotten and neglected streets. When he could get away with it, he listened to his parents talk. They didn't do much of that, but now and then, when they thought he was asleep, they would hold the kind of intermittent, footnoted conversations he'd learned to expect from adults. The sound of his mother's soft hesitant voice and John's firm, short replies gave him something to cling to in the stuffy, moving darkness, though he often struggled to decode what they really said to each other.

But now he sits pretty, stretched out with the whole back seat to himself, head and knees supported with cushions, his link and a couple of old-fashioned paperbacks at the ready, along with a stash of cookies and candy and water in an insulated bag, provided by his smother mother. There's good music on the system, and traffic isn't too bad. Even better, he's got junior and the successful writer in the front seat and they provide more entertainment than he'd dared to hope for.

"You need to lighten up," Faust says. She sounds sure of herself, as if no one else could have any other opinion. Of course that's gonna get the kid riled.

"I'm just fine," Jason says. He stares straight ahead at the freeway, though Barbarella does all the work and makes a fine job of it—exactly what Greg expects of an experienced and intelligent ride like his. He has compared his wife to her on occasion, and Roz hasn't objected. Well, not too much anyway.

"You're acting like you're headed to your execution." Faust picks a cashew out of the bag of trail mix she holds.

"This is a big deal. Excuse me if I take it seriously."

"There's seriously, and then there's being a drama queen. You don't usually act like this, so I'm thinking you're taking advantage of the situation." Greg awards the point to Faust; there's a good amount of truth in that observation. The kid hunches his shoulders.

"You're not the one going through this," he says.

"Neither are you," Faust says, "not unless you want to."

Jason shoots a quick glare at her. "Don't start dumping platitudes on me, okay? Just don't."

"It's not a platitude to say the way you choose to face something is bullshit. You'd do it to me." Her reasonable tone annoying as hell, but something tells Greg she knows that, and uses it the way a dentist uses a pick to find hidden areas of decay in a mouthful of teeth.

"If you think I'm gonna smile and joke around about this, think again," Jason snaps at her. He turns his head away to look out the left side window.

"I didn't say that," Faust says. "Fine, go ahead and wallow."

"I'm not—" The kid bites off the words. He pushes his shoulders back, leans his head against the rest. "I'm just not." He moves his head to look in the rear view mirror and Greg closes his eyes. It's a feeble attempt at pretense but he thinks it'll work, mainly because his protégé doesn't pay attention to even the most basic details at the moment. After a moment Jason speaks, his voice low, urgent. "I'm—I'm worried. If they take me to court . . . I don't know what I'll do."

"Is that what you're mostly concerned about?"

"Yeah." Jason says it without emotion. "Yeah. Not—not jail, I don't mean that part of it. I'd probably get probation or a short suspended sentence. But losing the medical degree . . ."

"Are you sure that would happen?" Faust asks softly, after a little silence.

"Yeah, pretty sure." Jason sighs, a long slow exhale of breath that says more about his fear than words could ever express. Faust makes a little movement that Greg can see even through his lashes; she holds the kid's hand. They don't speak. About thirty seconds in, Greg decides he's had enough of this disgusting display of emotion and besides, he needs to pee. He coughs loudly and sits up, then sticks his head over the front seat. "Are we there yet?"

Faust chuckles. "Rest area's coming up," she says. Greg sets his chin on the seat.

"It better have clean facilities or we'll have to go to the next one."

"If you don't like it, pee on the poison ivy by the picnic tables," the kid says, but at least there's a fugitive quirk of the lips when he says it—the first faint hint of some kind of humor since this whole debacle began. That's a good sign, though of course it's not anything to rely on.

When they reach the rest stop, they all empty out their respective bladders in the appropriate receptacles, wash up and stretch their legs with a brief walk, then gather in the café to get some drinks and a few items to supplement the food Sarah's sent along with them. It's the most basic exercise in the observation handbook to figure out exactly what the other two will buy, and they don't disappoint; Faust gets a nut bar and a bag of dried fruit, Jason picks up a package of pretzel bites and some chocolate. Greg takes the opportunity to stock up on chips, candy bars, beef jerky and sugarless gum. The look the clerk gives him over the gum is worthy of an Oscar—raised brow and eloquent eyes. "Mind your own beeswax," Greg says, and grabs the bag out of her hand. He notices his hands shake again—the liquor from breakfast wore off over an hour ago, he'll have to take his meds. He pops the dose dry and chases it with some coffee, an action of which his doctor would disapprove if she could see it.

Soon enough they're on their way once more. Since they're closer to civilization now and traffic is more congested, Greg has consented to Faust behind the wheel. He knows she's worth his temporary trust—her style is conservative and more cautious than bold, something he'd normally decry, but with his baby on the line he's just as happy to stay on the slower, more deliberate side of things. He won't admit he's a little more comfortable having a human ready to take charge if need be, anyway.

He looks over the music selections, chooses Taj Mahal's 'Stagger Lee' to start things off, and enjoys the familiar opening notes as he settles back for a snooze. They move through Connecticut now, site of innumerable traditional bedroom communities for Manhattan and environs. It's congested and utterly boring, in a more or less genteel way; he's often wondered how anyone can stand to live here, in gated neighborhoods with manicured lawns and house paint colors approved by the homeowners association—but then people have to live somewhere. Still, better them than him.

"What do you think's gonna happen?" Greg opens an eye. The kid's not looking at him, but it's clear the question was directed his way.

"Doesn't matter what I think," Greg says.

"It does to me."

Now that reply smacks of desperation. Greg opens the other eye. "Stop panicking."

"I'm not." Jason tips his head back, tucks a thick wave of hair behind his ear; he should have gotten it cut again before they left. Committees are usually made up of people who appreciate neat clothes and neat hair. "I'm just asking."

Well, that's an outright lie. Can't let that one go by. "You want reassurance. I don't have any to give you. What happens depends on how persuasive your idiot department head is, how many favors he can call in to get you screwed, how many friends he has on the committee."

"He's a complete dick," the kid says. "Favors, not friends."

Greg nods. "That's a little more difficult. If he's a well-known jerk who's an equal opportunity offender, calling in markers can backfire."

"I've heard the tenured teachers talk about him. Lots of hardcore bitching." Jason falls silent. "Long-term, what do you think?"

Greg closes his eyes. "Depends on how you handle things. You'll have a harder time with some people and institutions, but that's natural. Rules are created mainly to keep the status quo and protect assets of all kinds. If you show you're dangerous and unpredictable by coloring outside the lines, you'll get put in the time-out corner."

"How long's the time-out?"

"Doesn't matter. Think about something else."

"How long was it for you?" the kid wants to know. Greg sighs.

"With some people there's no time limit once you get a reputation as a fence-breaker, so you're better off not worrying about it. Do what you have to and screw anyone who doesn't get what your methods are, or your results."

Silence descends, but just as Greg is about to slip into sleep Jason says softly, "The courage of my convictions. That's what you're talking about, isn't it?"

Greg's eyelids flutter a bit. "Something like that. Shit or get off the pot."

"Nice," Faust says. "You always did have a way with an elegant turn of phrase."

"My blessing and my curse. Now both of you shut up. I'm an old fart and we're only halfway to Beantown. I need my beauty sleep."

They both take the hint and quiet down, which allows him to drift off. He doesn't wake until someone puts a hand on his shoulder.

"We're a couple of hours out," Faust says quietly. "We're gonna stop and take a break, get a hot dinner."

They have burgers and fries at a little diner off the beaten path. It's clearly a place both parties know well; they don't even look at the menu, just ask for the daily special. Greg knows when in Rome and all that, so he gets the special as well. "But dry—that means no condiments and no cheese. And NO pickles," he tells the server, who blinks but writes it down. When his burger comes out it's an enormous chunk of ground sirloin on a crusty grilled roll with onion rings piled around it. He looks it over.

"Onions aren't done enough," he says, and watches the platter go back, to return with rings just this side of carbonized. He accepts the food with enthusiasm and digs in as the young people watch in resigned disbelief.

"How can you stand to eat a naked burger and burned rings?" Faust wants to know. Jason shakes his head but says nothing, just takes a swallow of beer.

They're back on the road soon enough. By the time they reach the outskirts of Boston the last faint light has gone from the sky. They navigate the streets to the hotel where they'll stay, as Gary Clark sings 'In the Evening'. There's a spurious sense of calm, but under it is a tenseness, all the more powerful for being unspoken. They're almost at the heart of the matter, but not yet—not yet.

Greg's room is comfortable and bland, but the mini-bar is well-stocked and the bed is firm without being rock hard. He dumps his duffle on the floor, sits and takes out his link.

Roz answers on the first ring. "Hey," she says, and he hears the worry in her tender voice. "How's it going?"

"We're here," he says, and feels an odd sense of relief. "You're doing well, no doubt."

"Lonely, though," she says, and while there's a teasing note, she means it too. "Can't wait for you to get home."

"Me too," he says, and it's the truth. "Yeah, me too."

They exchange a few more bits and pieces, and then he lies in the darkness, to stare up at the ceiling with a long night ahead of him, and the morning yet to come.

'_The Complete Collection', Robert Johnson_

'_Stagger Lee', Taj Mahal_

'_In the Evening', Gary Clark, jr._


	12. Chapter 12

Sarah settled into the corner of the couch and stared down at the phone in her hands. She'd carried it around for the last hour or so, debated on whether to call or not, even though she'd promised Prof she'd do so. It was late, and the people she wanted to talk to were tired from a long drive; still, she needed to touch base with her boys.

"I see you're fulfilling your part of the bargain," Prof said from the office doorway. "Well done, my girl. I'll keep my side and head upstairs, as your husband likes to say. See you in the morning. Toodle-pip."

"Good night," Sarah said, and watched Gordon climb the stairs to his room. Once he was out of sight she sighed and dialed Greg's number first, and fully expected it to go to voicemail. He picked up on the second ring.

"_What_?"

Sarah winced. "Hey," she said quietly. "I was thinking of you. How's it going?"

There was a long pause. Then, "Gee, lemme see . . . endless boring drive spent with a kid who's scared to death and his smartass girlfriend riding shotgun. Yeah, that's my idea of a good time."

She didn't reply right away. "Greg . . ." Everything in her didn't want to do this, didn't want to admit she'd made mistakes. "For what it's worth, I'm sorry."

"That statement could apply to a number of situations," Greg said after another silence. "Be specific."

"Okay, fair enough." She gathered up the rags of her courage. "I'm sorry I fought with you over this. It was stupid, and wrong." She heard his soft intake of breath at that last word, and knew then he'd been scared too, afraid they'd lost each other and their friendship. "I've had a few days to think about what—what happened."

"You've been talking with your foster father," Greg said after a time. It wasn't quite an accusation.

"Yeah, of course I have," Sarah said. "I'm still not thrilled about what you and Jason and Gene did, never will be. But . . ." She groped for the right words. "That's beside the point. I get that now."

Neither of them said anything for a while. Then Greg said "You're a parental unit. I'd expect you to go all mama lion where your kid's concerned."

"You're my foster son too," Sarah said. "I hurt you, Greg. I'm sorry."

"'mfine." It was an automatic response, she knew that well—the first line of defense.

"No you're not," she dared to push a bit. His response would tell her how much armor he'd put on.

"_Fuck_ you! Don't tell me how I'm feeling!"

"Then you tell me," she said softly. "It's been a while, but I'll hang out my shingle for you. Let's talk."

He didn't answer her for some moments. "You're full of it."

Sarah smiled a little. There it was, the reply she'd been waiting for-Greg the limit-tester, a familiar and oddly reassuring sign. "Most of the time, yes. Right now, no." She felt some of her anxiety fade just a bit. "Talk to me, son."

"What do you get out of this? Besides the inside information you'll use to guilt-trip me or the kid." The bitterness in his words made her heart ache. She'd been cruel without intention, which made it even worse; Greg had endured more than his share of that over the years.

"What I get out of it is apologizing to someone I never meant to hurt," she said quietly. "Prof's helped me . . . find some perspective."

"Huh," Greg said, but she sensed he'd relaxed just a bit—not so much trust as a slight reduction in defensiveness, a show of weakness as a lure to gain clues to his opponent's next move. "So this is really about making yourself feel better."

She'd expected that comment. "Do you honestly think that's true? Knowing I hurt you and Jason, and Gene, that I didn't understand that's what I was doing? It's been my choice, my _passion_, dammit, to study psychology for the last forty years to know the processes of the mind, how emotion and thought work together, to move past the games and reacting emotionally. I failed all of you on every level. That . . . that's the worst." The last word caught in her throat. "It was selfish and cruel, and that appalls me in every way possible. All I can do is say I'm sorry, and try to make amends. This is me doing that right now."

"This is you salving your conscience. Big deal."

"If that's how you want to see it," she said. Protestation would only prove his point, to his mind at least. "I'm offering my apology. What you do with it is up to you."

Greg snorted. "Fine. I say you're full of shit. The boy probably thought it but didn't say it when you _apologized_ to him."

"Didn't. Called you first."

There was a brief silence. "Huh," Greg said again. "Ass-kisser."

"Yeah, that's me." She knew better than to push any further. "I'll call him next. You gonna get any sleep?"

"If people don't pester me all night long trying to perpetuate an angstfest, I might." He hung up before she could say anything else. Sarah cleared the call and stared down at the phone. There was a lump in her throat, and tears stung her eyes; she should have known better than to expect acceptance on the first try. This would take time. When the phone rang she jumped and answered the call.

"H-hello?" she said, and cringed at her stupidity.

"Call your kid and go to bed," Greg said, and he was gone once more. Sarah pushed the 'end' button. After a moment she smiled just a little.

Jason was still awake, of course. "Hey, Mom," he said. He sounded preoccupied, but there was warmth in his voice. "You're up late."

"Of course I am," she said, and closed her eyes. "You are too."

"Yeah." He sighed. "Tough day ahead tomorrow. My brain won't shut off."

"That's understandable. Just remember your dad and I can't wait to see you again. We'll deal with the outcome of the meeting just fine, and so will you. I know it doesn't seem that way now, but things will work out."

"You're . . . you're not just saying that because you have to." It wasn't exactly a question. Sarah felt tears burn her eyes for the second time that night. She'd hurt him deeply over this.

"No," she said softly. "I'm not. Your father feels the same way. We love you, and we support you. I'm sorry if you ever thought we—I felt any other way."

"Thanks, Mom." Jason hesitated. "Would you—could I ask you to play for me? I know it's late—"

"Let me get the guitar," Sarah said, and rose to find the Martin six-string.

An hour later she'd just ended the call when Gene came in. He sat next to her on the couch, watched her strum a few idle chords before he said "Everything go okay?"

"Yeah." Sarah picked a melody, then set the guitar aside. She moved closer to Gene, rested her head on his shoulder. "I'm worried."

Gene slipped an arm around her waist and drew her close, his hand on her hip. "I know. Me too. Worryin' won't do any good, though."

"Yeah." She took a breath and finished the task she'd set herself. "I'm sorry I hurt you over this."

Gene rubbed her hip gently for a while before he answered. "I should've come to you, talked to you about it."

Sarah took his free hand in hers. "Yeah, you should have. But I understand better now why you felt you couldn't. I got mad and didn't listen, and you were afraid that would happen in the first place. I know that went on a lot in your family."

"It did, and I hated it. Everyone talking and no one listening . . . I could never get them to break out of that pattern." He kissed her temple. "Thanks for doing that—choosing another way. It means a lot."

"Took me a while."

"But you still did it."

They sat together in the quiet. "You talked to the boys," Gene said finally. Sarah nodded.

"Yes. It went about as you'd expect."

Gene snorted. "The oldest gave you hell, the youngest wanted you to play for him." He gave her a gentle pat. "You enjoy spoilin' those two, and Chase right along with them."

Sarah didn't deny it. "Never thought I'd have three boys. Or that my oldest would be older than me, my middle kid would be Australian, and I'd meet my youngest while he was stealin' my groceries."

Gene kissed the top of her head. "You're the one who took them in, the blame's on you."

"Thanks a lot."

They went upstairs in the small hours, after they'd taken care of the house. A steady rain fell outside as they got ready for bed; as a consequence the bedroom was chilly and damp. Gene started a fire in the wood stove while Sarah washed her face and brushed her teeth. When Gene took his turn in the bathroom, she put fresh sheets and new pillowcases on the bed. The clean linens felt good as they climbed in and got comfortable.

"If the kid's home for the summer, we can put him to work on the wood pile. We'll need another cord to get through winter if it's as cold as last year," Gene said, and groaned softly as he stretched a little. "Might as well take advantage of young muscles and a strong back."

"He'll probably do it without us having to ask," Sarah said. She watched the firelight flicker on the ceiling, a familiar and comforting sight. "If he ends up being charged . . ."

"We'll wait to worry about that," Gene said. "House might say otherwise, but he'll fight for Jason in his own way, even if it's for no other reason than the chance to flip the bird at authority." He settled onto his side. "You'll see."

"I have no doubt you're right. Now he and Jason just need to survive the experience." Sarah moved back against him, sighed softly as he brought the covers up over them both. "See you in a few hours."

"Thanks for the warning." Gene grunted when she gave him a light smack. "Beatin' on me now, nice."

"Shut up." She took his hand in hers. "Love you for some crazy reason."

"Same t'you, woman." He squeezed her hand gently.

She lay in the quiet dark a long time and listened to her husband's deep, slow breath, while her mind went over problems, solutions, outcomes, consequences, until sleep carried her down into darkness.


	13. Chapter 13

_May 13th_

"We're here today to talk about consequences."

Greg rolls his eyes at this all-too-predictable pronouncement and continues to scroll through his link feed. He's got it on 2D in slight deference to the kid, who sits next to him, pale and anxious. Well, actually he looks fairly calm and composed, but to anyone who knows him it's plain he's worried sick.

The idiot who makes the unoriginal statement is the titular head of the department, Dick Karlson. Aptly named, and a humorless jerk from the start; he'd shoved his weight around from the moment he walked into the room. He'd demanded the chairs and table be changed, insisted on fresh coffee and cold bottled water, and talked over anyone who argued with him. He was either oblivious to or didn't care about the signs of anger and resigned disgust he got in response to these petty machinations, but Greg noted them with some satisfaction. Sooner or later there would be a coup, and a bloody, messy one at that. Lots of casualties, no doubt.

"Jason Goldman—"

"Doctor Goldman," Greg says, but doesn't bother to look up. There is a moment of startled silence.

"He won't be a doctor much longer, what difference does it make?" Karlson snaps.

"His medical license hasn't been revoked."

"Well you'd know all about that, wouldn't you, House?" Karlson says with considerable contempt. "No wonder Goldman thought this was a good idea."

"That's Doctor House to you. And Doctor Goldman."

Another brief, strained silence. "Very well, _Doctor_ House. _Doctor_ Goldman stands accused of writing papers for money for other students," Karlson says. He savors every word. "Further, he hacked my computer and retrieved personal information in pursuit of writing those papers. This wasn't a single occurrence either, it happened numerous times over the course of the last eight years. The evidence is clear—"

"Where'd you get it? Not the clap you've clearly had for decades from the night you lost your virginity at the whorehouse visit Daddy bought for you. The evidence," Greg wants to know.

"Doctor House, we'll move to the questions in a few moments," one of the other committee members says—an older woman with silver hair and a harassed expression. Williams, that's her name. "If you would just—"

"Yeah yeah, if I'd just wait my turn everyone would be much happier, except me. Because somehow we'll never get around to my turn." He dumps plenty of contempt in his words; might as well begin as you mean to go on. "Where did Dickhead get the evidence he cites?"

"_Doctor House_!" Williams implores, as Karlson snarls

"That's _Doctor_ Karlson to you!"

"I call 'em as I see 'em," Greg says, unimpressed by either party. "Answer the question."

Karlson glares at him. "I'm here to ask questions, not—"

"We're here to get the truth," one of the other doctors says—Miller. He's a tall guy, about Greg's age, with lean, intelligent features and a quiet voice. It's clear he's already had enough of Karlson's attempt at authoritarian control, as well as the general atmosphere. "I suggest we stick with the same method we always use in situations like this."

"Water cannons? Rubber hoses? Sodium pentothal?" Greg wants to know. "Personally, I vote for hookers dressed like dominatrixes. Lotsa leather and riding crops. Thigh-high boots with stiletto heels. You know, the usual."

Williams spares him a wry look, while Miller offers a brief grin. "Nothing so entertaining. Mostly we keep the shouting to a minimum, but questions and answers on either side are permitted." He shoots a look at Karlson. "As well you know, Richard."

"I'll answer when it's appropriate," Karlson says.

"Well, I say it's appropriate now." Miller sits back a bit. "Where did the evidence come from?"

"From me," Jason says. Karlson glares at him.

"You're not allowed to speak—"

"Of course he is," Williams says. She sounds exasperated. "This is not an inquisition, it's an investigation."

"Yeah, cut it out, Dickhead," Greg says. Jason looks down at the floor. Greg wonders if he's in freakout mode, or tries not to laugh; it's impossible to tell from his expression.

"So we've established Doctor Goldman volunteered the information himself," Miller says before Karlson can answer. "Why did you do that, Jason?"

"Because Doctor Karlson asked me what I'd done," the kid says. "I didn't think lying or not answering was the right thing to do."

There's a little rustle of surprise from the committee members. They hadn't expected that reply. Greg knows a momentary surge of pride in his protégé.

"Why did you hack into the computer?" Williams wants to know. Jason lifts his head to look at her.

"I wanted to make sure no one was plagiarizing my writing samples," he says simply.

"That's a lie," Karlson says quickly. "There were no 'writing samples', he was writing papers, period!"

"It's not a lie," Jason says, and the room falls silent at the ring of absolute truth in his words. "I didn't write papers for people. I showed them how to do it."

"You charged money for it," Miller points out. Jason nods.

"Yes."

"Why?" Williams wants to know.

"My mother explained to me once that in our culture, people only value what they pay for, or what they think is expensive," the kid says. "I've observed that she's usually right. So I charged for the work I did. I asked what I thought was a fair price, but if someone really couldn't afford what I was asking, we negotiated a lower amount. The money paid for my rent and food."

"Your salary was supposed to take care of that," one of the other doctors points out-a short, stocky guy by the name of Katzman.

"I sent my salary home to pay my student loans."

"Oh come on," Karlson scoffs. "That's nothing more than a blatant attempt to play on everyone's sentimentality."

"Do you have proof of that?" Miller asks. Jason goes to his link and pulls up a file.

"The information's available to anyone who wants it. It's verified by the state."

The committee looks over the list and confer among themselves for several minutes. Karlson looks unhappy, to say the least. He barely glances at the information and doesn't talk to the others. Of course his mind is made up; he doesn't need facts to intrude on the sentence he's ready to hand out. Greg knows he personally is now a likely target, a last-ditch opportunity to smear the kid with the tarnish of his own experience with cheating and expulsions. Sure enough, Dickhead doesn't disappoint.

"All right, it's clear enough you're telling the truth about using the money to pay off your loans," Katzman says at last. "But you had to know that hacking into the computer was a questionable activity, to say the least. Why did you do it?"

"Look at who he's got as a mentor," Karlson says before the kid can answer. Miller glances at Greg. Greg looks back at him.

"Doctor House isn't being investigated here," Miller says.

"According to you, everything and everyone's fair game," Karlson sneers. "Goldman chose someone who's well-known for breaking any rule in existence just because he can."

"No, not just because I can," Greg says in an offended tone. "See, that's what stupid people like you assume when you watch someone doing something you don't understand."

There are audible groans. Karlson is red-faced now; his little dark eyes glitter with rage. "I happen to be the head of this department!" he snaps. "You don't get chairs by being stupid!"

"No, you get them by kissing ass and playing politics, for the most part." Greg leans forward. "Enough of the outraged-sensibility bullshit. You're pissed off because the kid didn't cut you in for a percentage. Admit it."

"Doctor House," Miller says before Karlson can answer, "antagonism won't help your cause." He glances at Karlson, then away. "While a mentor has considerable influence, the student still makes his own choices."

"Under the direction of the mentor," Karlson says, and sends Greg a look that should make his head explode. Greg gives him a slight smile that's as good as a middle finger flipped his way. Karlson's face darkens; he's almost purple now. Maybe the idiot will stroke out and this investigation will become just a footnote in the department records. They couldn't be that lucky, though. Morons tend to live long lives, and aggravate the hell out of everyone else while they do it.

"If you're trying to say Doctor House told me to write sample papers, he didn't," Jason says.

"But he did tell you about the practice of writing papers?" Williams asks.

"Yeah," Greg says before the kid can reply. "I told him. If everyone in this room would stop with the hypocrisy, some of us would admit to buying a paper or two back in the day. Or writing one for money, for that matter."

Now the silence is uncomfortable; no one knows where to look. Jason stares at the floor. Greg watches the committee members, sees the fleeting expressions of guilt, anger, embarrassment. After a few moments Miller speaks.

"A good point, Doctor House. But the fact remains that right now we're dealing with Doctor Goldman's actions, and by extension your mentorship. You gave your student tacit permission to engage in this behavior. You may have even encouraged him." He pauses. "Your process of deduction is . . . legendary, to say the least. While I don't understand it and never will, I do comprehend this much: you have a responsibility toward anyone you mentor, to keep them from harm or harming others—just as your student has a responsibility to be accountable for his behavior."

"My student has a _responsibility_ to do what he sees as the right thing," Greg snaps. To his surprise Miller has a ready reply that isn't the standard disclaimer.

"Bending rules is an art. Not enough pressure and you don't get results. But too much, and the rules can break or sustain serious damage." He gives Greg a direct look, but there's no antagonism. "In this case, the worst hasn't been done-"

"I disagree!" Karlson says loudly. "I disagree completely with that assessment!"

"—but it's close enough to warrant consideration of disciplinary action, as this meeting demonstrates-"

"We've got enough evidence to make a decision," Karlson talks over Miller now, to assert his petty authority. "Let's get this over with."

"I have something to say," the kid says. His voice is quiet, but it still stops Karlson from any further attempt to co-opt the decision.

"Go ahead," Williams says after a moment. Jason nods.

"Thanks." He gets to his feet, and Greg is forcibly reminded that his protégé is a grown man. He still tends to think of Jason as the teenager who hung out at the clinic and washed dishes at Lou's, whose hands shook when he played saxophone solos in band practice, who named off bones of the foot with delight and an absolute surety of knowledge that is its own reward. It's an appalling sentimentality on his part, and detrimental as well. Jason Goldman is an adult, and now he faces a difficult and potentially life-altering consequence of his actions. To see him as a child won't help him face whatever is to come.

"I stand by my actions," Jason says. "I asked Doctor House for help, and he gave me several options to deal with the situation I was in. I chose to help people write papers. I went to Doctor Karlson first, and asked that he set me up as a department tutor for students who needed help. He refused."

"I had my reasons," Karlson throws in. Jason waits until the older man finishes, then continues.

"I did what I did on my own, partly because I was looking to make some extra money, yeah. But also because there are a lot of students who don't know how to write sentences, let alone papers. I'm not saying I did this out of the goodness of my heart. I saw a need, and did my best to help people while helping myself too."

"Enlightened self-interest," Williams says. "That's a very unusual defense, Doctor Goldman."

"I'm not defending my behavior. I'm explaining it," Jason says. "We all know the grad students who are supposed to tutor are either overwhelmed with too much work, or they don't give a shit in the first place. I provided a service. As for the computer hack, it was the lesser of two evils, in my opinion. Either I checked on the people I tutored to make sure they weren't cheating by plagiarizing my work, or someone would get a grade they didn't deserve and it would be my fault. That would extend to the patients they might mis-diagnose or even harm in the future. I didn't do anything else, like change grades or forge records. You can verify that if you haven't done it already." Greg sees Jason's hand clench, then relax as he continues. "I'll accept whatever decision is made, there won't be any appeals or lawsuits."

"Big of you," Karlson says with a sneer. Jason ignores him and takes his seat. After a moment Miller speaks.

"If the committee is in agreement, I think we have enough information to make a decision. We'll need some time to confer, so Doctors House and Goldman, if you would wait outside please."

Greg rises. "Here's hoping you won't make me say 'Nothing ever changes'," he says, even as he knows full well the committee members have read up on or already know about his own experiences with disciplinary boards. He follows Jason out of the room and to the waiting area where Mandy sits with her virtual notebook. She gets up when they arrive, kisses Jason's cheek, and says nothing. There are no platitudes to offer, no hand-holding or comfort, but there is a stand with fresh coffee and doughnuts in the foyer.

"Your turn to buy breakfast," Greg says in a cheerful tone. Jason rolls his eyes but departs for the first floor. Mandy glances over at Greg but is still silent.

"It'll go how it goes," Greg says. His voice is harsh, too loud. Mandy nods and continues to write. Greg sits down slowly. Plenty of time now to wait for whatever is to come.


	14. Chapter 14

Jason finished the last of his coffee and got to his feet. "I'll be back," he said, and tossed the cup into the recycle bin before he left the waiting room. Mandy nodded at him, her expression neutral, but he saw the worry and flinched from it. House didn't bother to acknowledge him, as he played a game on his link; Jason could see the small figures flicker and move. Just as well, he was in no mood for the older man's abrasive remarks.

He used the public restrooms, though he knew he still officially had privileges in the residents area, at least until he was told to leave. It felt odd to walk the familiar hallways without a load of exhaustion, a belly full of bad coffee and a head crammed with notes, lists, case files, some terrible joke a friend passed on, the last words of a dying patient he'd liked, and all the other bits and pieces of a resident's endless shift on the wards. As much as he'd hated his time here for the constant battles with Karlson and a thousand other annoyances, he'd learned more than in any other place. He'd hoped the fellowship would bring even more experience and knowledge; that it was a prestigious honor was beside the point. He wanted to work with some of the best cardiologists on the planet, soak up everything they could teach him. As a diagnostician he'd no doubt routinely encounter heart disease as an adjunct to other more exotic problems, at least in his older patients, and he wanted to be able to deal with the basics first. He thought of Poppi Lou, who'd passed in the night from a massive coronary after all they could do for him, and remembered the promise he'd made to himself the night before the funeral.

On impulse he called his mother. She answered on the first ring, a sure sign she'd waited for him. "Hey sweetheart."

"No news," he said, and sat down. The sound of Mom's voice made him realize how exhausted he was. "How's everything at home?"

"Quiet," Mom said. "I spent most of the morning in the garden putting out slug traps."

"You used Dad's beer." Jason straightened his legs, flexed his knees. "He won't be too happy."

"He'll get over it, especially if he wants fresh green beans later this summer." He heard a door close. "I'm in the office now. Can you tell me what's going on? How did the meeting with the committee go?"

"Well, they listened to me anyway," he said. "At least some of them did."

"And Greg-did he chip in? I can't imagine him sitting on his thumbs."

Jason scrubbed a hand over his face. "Yeah, he . . . he spoke his mind, the way he usually does."

Mom snorted. "I'll bet." She hesitated. "What can I do? Do you just need to talk?"

"I don't know," Jason said. "I don't know what to do. Waiting isn't-isn't-"

"Not one of your strengths," Mom said. "At least not like this." Jason heard the creak of her old office chair, the one they always joked about. "Have you had some lunch?"

He glanced at the time, surprised to find it was well after noon. "Not really hungry."

"Now I find that hard to believe. You just drank a bunch of coffee, that's all. If you don't want to do the cafeteria, there's that place in the foyer . . ."

She stayed with him while he bought a couple of sandwiches and an iced tea, and found an empty corner. He ate and talked with her a bit, and her quiet voice created a place where he could just be, with no expectations, no blame or guilt. He managed to eat all of one sandwich and part of the second as well as some of the iced tea, and felt a little better afterward.

"I'll probably be home for the rest of the summer," he said after they'd both fallen silent.

"Yes. It's been a while. I'd rather have you stay under other circumstances, but it'll still be good to have you home."

"What if-"

"No," Mom said firmly. "The worst thing you can do right now is start worrying about things that aren't likely to happen."

"Anything's possible," Jason said, and felt a wave of bitterness sweep through him.

"But not everything is probable, as you well know. Don't borrow trouble, it'll find you on its own easy enough." Mom was silent a moment. "How's Mandy?"

"She's Mandy," Jason said. It was an old joke between them. Mom chuckled.

"She's probably working on her latest epic. Everyone here is speculating on when she's gonna buy another house."

"Wait—another one?"

"Yeah, She's talked about it for a while now. Maybe a place in Florida or the Southwest," Mom said. Jason could hear the smile in her voice. "Why don't you ask her about it?"

He sat for some time after his call to Mom ended, and thought about what she'd said. Then he headed back to the waiting area. He didn't pay attention to the people he passed, until someone brought him to a stop. "Hey, Goldman! How's it going?"

Jason blinked. "Uh—hey, Harris. It's going."

The other resident gave him a tentative smile. "Heard about what happened. You need someone to talk to the committee about the papers? I've still got all the research notes and the sample you gave me. I'd be glad to show them how you set things up."

"That's . . . that's really . . ." Jason took a breath and found to his utter horror that he was close to tears. "Thanks. If I need you, I'll let you know. I really . . . I really appreciate that."

Harris nodded. "You helped me out. That's worth a return. We ice?"

Jason returned the nod. "Yeah, we're ice. See you around."

"Lemme know how things turn out," Harris said, and headed off down the hall.

Nothing had changed in his time away; Mandy was still hard at work, House played his game. Jason dumped his trash in the recycle bin and sat down. "How's mother dear?" House said.

"Using Dad's beer in the garden," Jason said. House gave a bark of laughter.

"Gunney's gonna love that."

"She probably used the stale bottles," Mandy said, and gave Jason a quick smile. "I'm glad you had a chance to talk to her. She got you to eat some lunch at least."

"Yeah, that's great." House frowned as the game ended. "Dammit, you're distracting me."

"Sorry," Jason said, but couldn't find it in him to put much sarcasm in the word. House shot him a keen look but said nothing.

"I don't think it'll be much longer," Mandy said.

"And you're basing this observation on what? A writer's intuition?" House wanted to know.

"They've had a couple of hours to review the evidence and get their political positions sorted out and stated for the record. Now it's down to who's going to win the battle over the criminal charges. I think from what you've told me, the other committee members will get their way there and you won't be prosecuted. Karlson will make sure you don't get the fellowship, though." Mandy's voice was gentle but firm. "You know that already."

"Yeah," Jason said. "Yeah, I do." He sat down. "Mom . . . Mom said you're thinking about buying another house."

Mandy looked up at him for a moment. Her expression was inscrutable. "Yeah, I might."

"You'd talked about moving a couple of years ago, but you weren't sure you wanted to leave."

Mandy nodded. "It was always mom's dream to own our house, not mine. But after she died, I wanted something of hers for my own, and the house just sort of fit with that idea." She looked down. "But I'd still like to try living somewhere else, even if it's just for part of the year."

"Touching," House said. Mandy smiled just a little.

"Shut up."

"Disrespecting your elders," House shot back. "What would your mother say?"

"She'd join in," Mandy said, and House flashed her a brief grin. Jason felt a smile tug at his lips, just as a woman came up to him—Williams.

"We're ready," she said. There was nothing to be read from her expression. Jason nodded as anxiety replaced humor. "Follow me."

House got to his feet. Williams glanced at him but said nothing, just continued on. Mandy ended her writing and rose also.

A moment later they stood in the conference room, the three of them together. Jason allowed himself to take a little comfort from House on one side and Mandy on the other, before Doctor Miller said "All of you take a seat please."

House and Mandy sat, but Jason stayed on his feet. "I'd rather not sit," he said quietly. Miller nodded.

"As you like." He glanced at the committee members. Karlson glowered back at him; it was clear he was deeply unhappy. Everyone else looked either impassive or ready for the whole thing to be over with. Jason sympathized with them. "We've reached some decisions."

"Took you long enough," House muttered. Miller spared him a look before he turned his attention back to Jason.

"First things first. We've decided not to pursue criminal charges on the computer hack. Doctor Karlson has also agreed not to press charges or institute a lawsuit."

"What did he get in return?" House wanted to know.

"Regarding your qualification for the cardiology fellowship, we've reached the decision to bar you permanently from applying." Miller spoke calmly, but the words held an unmistakable emotional charge. Jason knew that was the price Karlson had demanded to forego charges.

"A letter of reprimand will be placed in your file," Miller was saying. "It is the recommendation of this committee that you take this summer to apply for other fellowships." He glanced at House, then away. "Speaking for myself, I'm sorry this happened, Doctor Goldman. You've been an extraordinary asset to the residency program and the hospital. I know wherever you end up, you'll excel." He stood. "This inquiry is ended."

They all shook his hand—everyone except Karlson of course, who'd exited the room at the earliest opportunity and made a total production out of it. Jason endured the oppressive kindness and sympathy of the committee members, and escaped as soon as he could. He felt strange, as if his body and brain belonged to someone else. He followed Mandy and House to the car as he struggled to come to terms with what had just happened. He'd known intellectually what the likely consequences would be, and this verdict came so close to what he'd imagined that he'd practically predicted it—and yet the reality was as sharp-edged and bitter cold as an icy knife blade.

When he came out of his thoughts they were on their way home, with House at the wheel to do the actual driving. "Don't worry," he said as Jason sat up a bit. "I may be old but I'm not dead yet."

He was a good defensive driver with an eye for detail, not a surprise given his personality and work. Jason found he was able to settle down a bit, if not relax. Mandy sat in the back seat surrounded by overnight bags, at work once more. She glanced up at him and offered a slight smile.

Eventually Jason dozed off, to wake when the car slowed. "Need a break," House said, and pulled into a rest area. He found a parking spot near the restroom doors. "Call your mother." Before Jason could say anything the older man got out and stalked off. Mandy followed him a few moments later, though she leaned in and kissed Jason's cheek before she went into the restrooms.

"How are you?" Mom said when she answered. Not "What happened?" or "What did they say?" Jason closed his eyes for a moment.

"Weird," he said. "Just sorta numb."

"Shock," Mom said quietly.

"Yeah. They—they won't press charges on the hack, but I'm barred from the cardiology fellowship for good." He swallowed on a hard lump in his throat.

"_M'chridhe_," Mom said. The compassion in her voice made his heart ache. He wished for a moment that he was already home, away from the pain. It was a foolish thought, he knew he carried the pain inside him and always would. "How far out are you?"

"Um . . . probably won't be home till small hours."

"Okay. I'll be waiting. Safe travels. I love you."

He hung onto that 'I love you' the whole way home, a spark of warmth in an ocean of cold.


	15. Chapter 15

"You know, your situation isn't as serious as you think it is."

They're maybe an hour out from home, the car on auto-cruise with Mandy behind the wheel. She holds a low-voiced conversation with someone in Prague—whoever will translate her latest opus, from the sound of things. Jason sits next to her, his head tipped back. At Greg's words he doesn't react, not at first. Then he says

"_Don't_." His voice is low and terse.

"Oh, get over it." Greg leans forward a bit. "You got busted for activities the establishment considers questionable, and now you won't get first pick for placement. Boo fuckin' hoo."

"Don't make it a temper tantrum. It's not." Oh, the young man is dead serious. Even for someone as close-mouthed as Jason is generally, he's been grim and silent as a tombstone since they left Boston. This cannot be allowed to continue.

"From where I sit, that's exactly what it is. If you plan to mope around all summer like you've been shat on, you can think again."

Jason turns to look at him. In the faint light from the navigation screen he looks thunderous, his dark eyes cold. "I didn't ask your opinion."

"Too bad, and it's not an opinion, it's damn good advice," Greg snaps. "Stop wallowing."

"Just because you've been in more trouble—"

"Yeah, I have. The difference between you and me is, I expected it and moved on."

Jason glares at him. "Bragging about it doesn't make it a good thing."

"Explanation can't be conflated into bragging, not unless someone got into the dictionary and swapped out words." Greg pauses to fish around in his coat pocket. He finds the sugarless gum he bought on their journey northward to doom and gloom, pops open the packet, then thrusts his hand over the seat back. "Here. I'd offer a smoke, but I'm buying them on the black market now and they cost a fucking fortune that you're not worth."

Jason doesn't take the packet. "I don't do either nicotine or gum, so no thank you."

"Chewing relieves stress. That means you'll need at least half of what's in there," Greg says. "Shut up and take the damn gum."

After a few tense moments Jason accepts the packet. He shakes some gum pieces into his hand, stares at them a moment, then dumps them in his mouth. He gives the packet back to Greg, who takes a few pieces as well. He and Jason sit in silence except for the sound of jaws and teeth as they masticate away, and Mandy's low-voiced conversation.

"Chewing doesn't relieve stress," Jason says finally. Greg snorts.

"In this case, anecdotal evidence outweighs a crap study that's thirty years old." He snaps his gum. "You don't have it that bad."

Jason doesn't say anything for a while. When he does speak, his voice is so quiet Greg has to strain to hear him. "I'm not . . . not pouting."

"Interesting interpretation. Tell me what you'd call it, then."

Another pause. "Failure."

Greg rolls his eyes. "I was right the first time, this _is_ a fucking pity party."

"_No_." Jason turns to face him now. "It's not self-pity! It's . . ." He hesitates. "I didn't count on someone like Karlson—hating me."

"You figured everyone would take you straight to their heart? That's so touching."

"That's not . . ." The younger man is silent for a few moments. "I know some people won't like me, I'm not three years old. But I didn't do anything to make him hate me."

"That's probably true. I bet you did everything he asked you to," Greg says softly. "Even more sometimes, when you could. You worked hard to get good grades, help out other students."

"Well . . . yeah."

"Went above and beyond, stayed cooperative and uncomplaining even when he dumped more on you. Never said anything when he took credit for your work or treated you like shit in front of other students."

It takes his protégé another moment or two to get there. "_Jealousy?_" His bewilderment was clear. "That's fucking ridiculous."

"Why?" Greg wants to know. Jason runs a hand through his hair—a nervous gesture he's picked up from his mother, though Gunney does it at times too.

"He's—he's a tenured chairman at one of the best teaching hospitals in the country—"

"—who hasn't published or been invited to give an address at a conference in years, has alienated every colleague within a hundred-mile radius, dumps all his work on his grad students and drinks his lunch. Probably his dinner too." Greg sighs. "I trained you better than this."

"But none of this makes any sense! I was just another student—" Jason begins, but Greg cuts him off.

"_Wrong_. You were too damn good for his comfort zone, which made you a threat and a constant reminder of his own limitations and dead dreams. Of course he had to get rid of you. He probably doesn't give two rats asses that you helped with papers. It was just a convenient excuse to send you packing."

Neither one of them speaks for a while. Then Jason says "I work—worked every day with doctors far better than me."

"No, you worked with doctors who knew how to play the game and make themselves look good." Greg takes a moment to blow a small bubble, pops it and starts over; the sugarless stuff doesn't make good bubbles, not like Bazooka or Bubbleyum.

"I won't play games," Jason says it without emphasis. "They're a waste of time."

"That depends on what playing the game will get you."

"All it gets you is stuck in someone else's power trip."

Greg rolls his eyes. "_Duh_. That's if you let the other person make the rules. First rule of game-playing: there are no rules. That's how you win."

"But if there are no rules—" Jason says, clearly bewildered.

"Nine times out of ten, the other person thinks there _are_ rules. So you tell them whatever suits your purpose at the time. Then lie about it later."

He watches his protégé try to wrap his mind around the concept of deliberate deception, and knows both exasperation and a reluctant pride in Jason's integrity.

"I can't do that," Jason says after a time. "It's . . . it's wrong."

"Is your real last name Cameron?" Greg wants to know. "Nowhere in this conversation has anyone been told they have to _do_ something. The proper word is 'comprehend'."

That hits home. Jason's face clears. "Okay," he says, and his relief is palpable. "Okay, I get it."

"A little slow on the uptake," Greg says. "Look at how long you've been working with me, and I still have to explain the facts of life to you."

"I'm not gonna play games." Jason looks out the window. "Observe, fine. Understand and deal, okay. But no participation."

"Glad we have that cleared up." Greg blows another bubble and pops it, just as Mandy ends her call. In silence she puts her hand out, palm up.

"What do I get in return?" Greg says.

"Me not telling you in detail about the inane and pointless conversation I just endured."

Without another word he gets out the gum and pours a generous amount into her hand.

They're within shouting distance of home when Jason says "I'm gonna talk to Dave about work."

"Reconsidering your goals in life. A bit reactionary," Greg says.

"I'm not reconsidering anything. But I've still got a loan to pay off and Mom and Dad could use some help. Might as well do both while I'm looking for whatever's available." There is a remarkable lack of bitterness in that statement, but it's clear his student does not hold out much hope, either.

"Talk to Chase," Greg sits back and turns on his link. There are a couple of calls stacked up, one from the red-haired menace, the other from his wife.

"He's got enough on his hands, running the clinic."

"_I_ still run the clinic, he just takes care of the down-and-dirty. Talk to Chase," Greg says again, and returns Roz's call first.

"Hey," she says when she answers. She sounds a little sleepy, but there is happiness in her voice—she's delighted he called. Even after their years together, it's still a surprise that someone is actually glad to talk to him. "Where are you?"

"Close enough to see you've been dozing on the couch," he says, and closes his eyes when she laughs.

"Busted," she says, and he hears her smile in her voice. "Missed you."

"Unlikely." He can't help but smile too; he always enjoys their sass battles, big and small. "What are you wearing?" He sees Mandy roll her eyes, but she's amused.

Roz's soft laugh tickles his ear. "Wouldn't you like to know. You'll have to come home to find out."

"On my way," he says. "Have a midnight snack ready."

"I thought I was your favorite late-night nibble."

"Nope. Chips, cookies, beer," he reminds her, though that's a big fat lie.

"No way, not at this hour."

"Come on," he whines. "I've been away for months, years even. You have to prove your love all over again."

"I'm not provin' nothin', buster." She pauses. "But there is leftover pizza."

"Not that veggie crap!"

"I got some pepperoni—"

"Yeah, and it's on the way home," he leers.

"—we can slice it up—"

"Ouch!"

"Oh, stop it." Her voice drops a whole tone, dark and sultry. "You can pick off the spinach."

"_Jesus_," he groans. "I'm not eating anything with green juice smeared all over it."

"Fine. You might as well know I got our usual, half veggie and half meat-lover's."

"Thoughtful," he says, to mock her just a little.

"Be nice or you get _bubkes_," she says on a chuckle.

"Ah, you've been talking to Wilson again."

"Yeah, I have," she says to surprise him. "Call him when you get a chance."

"What's happened?" he says, a little too sharply.

"Nothing, he's fine. You two just haven't talked in a while."

"I called him last week!"

"You called him at Easter and taunted him about having baked ham and scalloped potatoes. As if he and Krys would be offended. They probably had the same thing," she laughs.

"Fine. Damn _yenta_."

"You better not mean me."

"Of course I do." He is tempted to end the call there, but he wants to hear her voice again—a ridiculous desire, since he's just minutes from home now. "Better get everything warmed up."

"Okay, I'll be ready." She half-whispers it and makes the hair on the back of his neck—the only cranial hair he's got left, more or less—stand up in pure appreciation.

"I meant the pizza," he takes pains to point out.

"Shut up!" She laughs, then says "_Ti amo, amante_. See you soon."

He ends the call, to place another. The Brit answers after a couple of rings. "Bloody hell, House, it's one in the a.m." He sounds alert though, not muzzy with sleep.

"You were awake so don't bitch. Gimme some inside information on my shrink."

"So she did call you, good for her." The Brit is amused. "Return her call and deduct away, Holmes."

"That's House," Greg snaps. "I'm not cold-calling anyone."

"Oh, _bollocks_. Stop acting like a sulky five-year-old, it ill becomes you. Sarah's worried about you, she called because she cares for you, for some reason that's beyond my ken at the moment. Now call her back and stop sniveling." And he's gone. Greg ends the call and glares at Jason, who chuckles softly.

"Shut up," he mutters, and calls his smother mother. She answers right away.

"How are you?" She sounds worried.

"Peachy. What's up?"

"Just checking in. You're almost home, probably. It was silly to call, but I just wanted to be sure . . ." She hesitates, and Greg knows it's because he's made her afraid to continue. He feels a reluctant stab of guilt.

"Be there in a few minutes," he says, and ends the call just as they turn onto the two-lane highway that will lead them into the village and past it to home.

Both houses have lights on when they pull into the Goldmans driveway. Greg leaves Barbarella idling while everyone takes out their gear. Sarah and Gene emerge from the mudroom door and for a few moments there's genial confusion. Greg's about to sneak away to his own home when he finds Sarah in front of him. Without a word she steps forward and slips her arms around him, her touch light, gentle.

"Thank you for taking such good care of everyone, and that includes you," she says softly. Greg stands there, unable to answer her or even return her embrace; a thousand conflicting emotions hold him frozen. After a moment she lets go, touches his arm—that butterfly caress he knows so well-and moves away. He knows they'll talk soon, but right now all he can do is be thankful she can still stand the sight of him.

He drives Barbarella home and gets her settled in the shed; she needs a clean-up, but he'll take her in to Jay and get her checked over in a day or so, have the mechanic's apprentice do some detail work. On that happy thought he grabs his duffle and heads to his own back door. The porch light is on. The Heebster sits on the step and watches him approach, his greeny-gold eyes full of curiosity and affection. Greg gives him an ear twiddle and allows himself a bit of comfort at the familiar gesture, and the response he gets. Then he straightens and finds Roz there with the screen door open. She comes forward and he drops the duffle as she puts her arms around him and lifts her face for his kiss.

They stand there for a little while, as moths thump and flutter in the flickering yellow light, and the trees rustle in a cool, soft night breeze.


	16. Chapter 16

_May 19th_

Sarah finished the last of her case notes, yawned and glanced at the time. Close to midnight, and still no sign of her son. She sighed, closed down the desktop and shut off the light, then ventured into the living room. Gene lay sprawled on the couch, apparently asleep. The vid screen revealed a baseball game in progress; probably a West Coast matchup. She crossed the room to perch on the couch. As she sat down he stirred and stretched a bit, then sat up slowly and made room for her. She moved in next to him, her thigh against his as he slid his arm around her shoulders. "No sign of our boy," she said after a time.

"He's down at the bar shootin' pool," Gene chuckled. "Jay's just about cleaned him out."

"I'm glad you think it's funny," Sarah said, unable to decide if she was more annoyed than amused. "He's doin' a lot more than shootin' pool. There's plenty of beer involved too, no doubt."

"He's had a tough time of it." Gene drew her a little closer. "Let the kid loosen up."

"He's been 'loosening up' all week and doesn't show any signs of stopping." Sarah glanced at him. "I think this is more about avoidance than relieving stress."

Gene didn't reply right away. "You could be right," he said finally. "But he is thirty years old. Not much we can do."

They sat together in silence for a while. Then Sarah said "We don't have the right to lay down the law like we did when he was a teenager, that's true. But there's nothing wrong with a little nudge here and there."

"What do you have in mind?"

"Well, I was thinkin'. . ." She leaned her head against him. "We haven't played together in the morning for a long time now. Maybe we should have a practice session around eight or so."

"You know he's been, shall we say, under the weather when he wakes up."

"That's a real shame. Maybe some good music will cheer him up," Sarah said, and did her best to look innocent.

"Oh, you are _mean_, woman," Gene said with a laugh in his voice.

"Rob said he's waiting for Jason to come over and talk to him. It's been a week since he's been back, more or less. Our boy needs a little motivation."

Gene gave her a gentle squeeze. "He has to work it out in his own way. You've been good about leaving him alone."

Sarah sighed, a soft exhalation of breath. "I did enough damage, freaking out on both of you." She was afraid to say more, worried of a misstep to bring back the pain and anger she'd caused.

"Sarah Jane, don't take all this on yourself." Gene kissed her temple. "We talked about this with Prof. It's time to move forward and deal with things as they are, not the way we want them to be."

"Listen to you, stealin' my job." She put her hand over his.

"You know, I do believe House is quite right about the two of you. You are absolutely sickening," Prof said from the dining room. He came in with a cup of tea in hand, and claimed one of the easy chairs. "All this billing and cooing is quite nauseating. You must cease and desist at once."

"You're up past your bedtime," Sarah said, and earned herself a mock glare.

"Whilst both you and your estimable husband may be plotting to herd your young man into action, I need no such assistance. I'm quite capable of deciding when I climb up that very long flight of stairs to my rest."

"Now don't be bitchin' about those stairs," Sarah said. "Jason offered to trade rooms with you."

"Indeed he did, true enough." Prof sipped his tea and sat back with a sigh. "As if I'd deprive the boy of a short walk to his bed when he arrives in the small hours."

Sarah glanced at Gene, who said nothing but shook his head. "Very thoughtful of you," she said, her tone dry.

"I aim to please. And by the way, it's about time you rousted him out of the funk to which he's allowed himself to descend."

That was something of a surprise. "I didn't think you'd approve," Sarah said slowly.

"My dear girl, there's feeling bad about prior events, and then there's out-and-out chicanery. I fear Jason has been taking advantage of the situation, like any normal young man of his age."

"You've gone with him. Twice," Gene pointed out.

"Indeed I have. But it may also have escaped your notice that I returned at a reasonable hour and in full possession of what few faculties I still have left," Gordon said wryly. "Shooting a rack or two and sampling the local brew is yet within my purview. Tying one on isn't."

"You're right. My apologies." Gene dipped his head.

"No offense taken, dear boy. I do understand that you're worried about your young man. He needs a touch of parental guidance to steer him in the right channel, and that's a fact."

"Okay," Sarah said, and felt relief wash through her. "Good. I wasn't sure . . ."

"You've had a few rude shocks to your belief system, my dear girl. Of course you'd doubt your judgment at the moment. But believe me when I say you'll find your instincts are sound. You love Jason and desire what is best for him." Prof took another sip of tea and rolled it over his tongue, swallowed and smacked his lips. "Ah, nothing better than a fresh cuppa and congenial company."

"You'll be up half the night now," Sarah said. "You know caffeine always keeps you awake."

"All the better to communicate with my erstwhile host in the south of France about my return."

Sarah felt another stab of guilt. "When do you plan to go back?"

"That depends entirely upon what transpires here, Sarah dear. I'm happy to stay for as long as I'm needed." Prof gave her a direct look over his cup. "Of course this means you'll owe me. I shall demand reimbursement in the form of an extended stay during the holidays." His blue eyes gleamed with amusement. "And no expecting me to dish up dinner either."

Sarah fought to speak past the sudden lump in her throat. "You know we'd love to have you for as long as you care to stay. And no dishing up."

"Splendid." Gordon beamed at her. "On that lovely thought I'm off to bed to dream of your cornbread dressing and a turkey leg all to myself. One last request—when you make your music at the blimmin' crack of dawn, please aim your instruments at Jason's room. I love your talent, but not at the ungodly hour you no doubt plan to employ." He rose and gave them a final smile. "Toodle-pip, my dears."

"We should do the same," Gene said once Prof had made his laborious way up the stairs. "We'll need to be up by seven if you really want to do this."

"Yeah, true." Sarah kissed his cheek and stood up, stretched a bit. "Off to bed then, pip pip."

"You've been hanging around your foster dad too long," Gene said, and stood as well. "Help me up the stairs, I'm feelin' my age."

"You just want to cop a feel," Sarah said.

"Don't make that sound like a bad thing! Come on, where else will I get my cheap thrills?" Gene flinched when she gave him a light smack on the shoulder. "Ow!"

"I'll give you cheap thrills, you big jamook."

"Promise?" That earned him another smack, this one a little more forceful. Gene rubbed his shoulder and gave her a reproachful look. "I said it before, you're nothin' but mean."

"I put up with a lot to make me that way," Sarah said, but she couldn't stop her chuckle. "Go on, get upstairs. Why are all men such horndogs?"

"You won't complain about that later on," Gene said, and took off before she could retaliate. Sarah shook her head and followed him.

"Think you can call me cheap," she said under her breath, and then laughed softly as amusement overtook mild exasperation. It felt good to flirt with her husband again, after so many days filled with silence and pain. She turned out the light and began the walk through the house, to make sure everything was secure. When she reached the kitchen she set up the coffeemaker and put away the last of the dishes in the rack, then left the light on over the sink. _Come home soon_, she thought, and left to climb the stairs to bed.


	17. Chapter 17

_May 20th_

_People shouted and cursed and hit at each other while he huddled in a corner and tried to be invisible . . . He looked around the room, desperate to find a way to escape—_

Jason woke on a gasp and a warning pulse of pain in his head. With caution he cracked open an eye, squinted against early morning sunlight, pushed hair out of his face. A few dust motes floated in a narrow sunbeam; he could feel the big old house around him, protective and familiar. He relaxed and blinked as he attempted to shake off the vivid images from which he'd just emerged. After a few moments he heard music—Mom's mandolin and Dad's guitar. Dad's voice reached him.

_well I'm goin' back to the country_

_I can't pay the rent_

_Mom and Dad will sure be mad at all the money I spent_

_now I know just what they meant_

_I ain't broke but brother I'm badly bent_

Jason rolled on his back and put his arm over his eyes, torn between laughter and exasperation as his head gave a vicious throb of pure pain. His parents shared a sense of humor that he'd come to learn was country, born and bred; poke someone with the truth in a deadpan manner just to see which way they'd jump. Well, at least they'd given him few days off and let him sleep in before they started their campaign.

When he emerged from his room he found Mom and Dad occupied the easy chairs, placed next to each other. Two steaming mugs sat on the coffee table; he knew one was coffee, the other tea. Jason scrubbed a hand over his face and aimed himself in the general direction of the kitchen, got down one of the big double cups Mom called 'emergency rations', poured an enormous coffee with four heaping spoonfuls of sugar, stirred and shambled back into the living room. He sat down across from the musicians and took a mouthful of coffee, strong, aromatic, hot and sweet.

_I had a lot of money_

_and to the city I went_

_I met a lot of good-lookin' girls and that's where my money got spent_

_now I know just what they meant_

_I ain't broke but brother I'm badly bent_

Mom flashed him a look, brows raised. _You awake?_ she wanted to know. Jason raised the mug with care and slurped another mouthful of coffee. She shook her head at him and continued to play.

When the song was done Jason cradled his mug. "Good morning," he said, and winced at his raspy voice. How much beer and whiskey had he put down last night? He had a vague memory of some racks at the village bar with Prof, House, Chase and Jay, but everything beyond the fourth game was a blur. He'd have to check his wallet later—no doubt Jay cleaned him out again. He was already close to broke, if he kept this up he'd have to ask his parents for money. The knowledge sobered him even more than the strong coffee.

"More like good afternoon," Dad said, but his voice held quiet humor, as much a part of him as his Nebraska accent and lean frame. "'bout time you raised from the dead. Again."

"Get some breakfast," Mom said, before Jason could answer. "Once you're fed and cleaned up, we'll talk." She smiled when she said it, and yet Jason knew she meant every word.

"I'm not a teenager," he said, but it was a token protest.

"We're well aware of that," Dad said. "Just because you're over the age of majority doesn't mean we stop being parents." He picked a chord before he spoke again. "Your mom's got the right idea."

"Yeah, fine," Jason said, resigned to defeat. He got up and headed for the downstairs bathroom.

An hour later, he had to admit he did feel a little better after a lengthy hot shower, a change of clothes and food in his belly, as well as some aspirin and a couple of Mom's B vitamins, something he should have taken before he left for the bar last night. He finished off a third cinnamon roll, poured another cup of coffee—a smaller mug this time—and ventured into the living room again. His parents were still there, their instruments set aside now. They talked back and forth in that easy, desultory way he'd always found of immeasurable comfort. It was quite clear they'd worked out much of their anger and confusion about the situation and arrived at some kind of understanding; while he sensed they were still unhappy with events to say the least, they'd calmed down. He didn't want to admit he felt relieved by the change in atmosphere, but it was true all the same. On that thought Jason set the mug on the coffee table, took a seat on the couch and faced them. "Okay," he said, "I'm ready."

Mom gave him a quizzical look. "We're not a firing squad."

"But you have questions about . . . about what I plan to do now."

"Of course we do," Dad said. "You've been thinking about it whether you want to or not. So what's up?"

Jason didn't answer right away. "I'm gonna go to Lou's and ask Dave if he can use me for a while."

"I think that's a good idea," Mom said, to Jason's surprise. He looked at her. She returned his gaze, her eyes more green than grey—always a sign she knew something he didn't and wasn't willing to share just yet. He sensed she still struggled with what he'd done, but she'd set her own problems aside to help him with his. The effort she'd put in made him feel ashamed. He'd been home for a week now and hadn't taken any steps to find open fellowship applications or even go into town for anything except spending time at the bar.

"Get your hair cut before you stop by," Mom said. "You look like a shaggy beast."

"Thanks." Jason sipped his coffee. "House wants me to talk to Rob."

His parents exchanged a look. "All right. Guess you'd better do it then," Dad said mildly. Jason looked from one parent to the other, but they just returned his look, their expressions impassive. There was no more information forthcoming on that score, so he gave in to circumstances and took his dishes to the kitchen, washed up and headed off to town.

It was a nice day, sunny and warm with a cool breeze. Mom let him take Minnie Lou, something of a mixed blessing. She was easy to drive, but everyone would know who he was the moment he hit the main drag. Undoubtedly gossip had made the rounds a thousand times already, especially since he'd been at the bar on a regular basis since his return. Well, nothing he could do about that now.

Gordy's was open, of course. Jason parked Minnie in front of the shop and got out, stretched a bit, went in. The place was empty except for the owner, though it was clear he'd already had customers; the coffee pot was half empty, and the broom and dustpan stood at the ready. Andy got up from the chair and turned down the sound on the screen. "Mornin'," he said in a cheerful tone. "Haven't seen you around for a while. Good to have you back."

"Thanks." Jason took the chair. Andy came to stand behind him.

"Looks like you need a good trim. How much you want off?"

Jason settled back. "I'll leave it up to you. No buzzcuts, that's all I ask."

"You got it."

For a while the only sound in the shop was the snip of the scissors and the screen announcer with last night's soccer and baseball scores. Jason closed his eyes and waited for the inevitable questions.

"Home t'stay for a while?" Andy asked after a time.

"Yeah, think so. How's it going?"

"Not bad, steady business and the family's doin' well. Rick was sayin' the other day you were here. Haven't seen too much of you."

"Not during the day at least." It was a feeble joke but it was at his own expense, and anyway it was the truth. Andy chuckled.

"Well, sometimes you need to whoop it up a little."

"Jay's happy anyway."

They continued in a comfortable silence. There was something to be said for a shared point of origin, where both of them knew the same people and their history, their behavior.

"How'd you like Boston?" Andy asked after a time.

"Too big," Jason said, surprised to find it was the truth and not just a conventional answer.

"Whole northeast corridor is one damn city anymore. Hard to know where one town ends and another starts." Andy dipped his comb in the glass. A moment later the florid scent of bay rum filled Jason's nostrils. "Heard you was workin' at a good hospital."

"Yeah, I was." He took a breath. "Not anymore."

"Walk out or fired?"

"Hmm . . . little of both."

"Huh." Andy paused. "You want a cut out around your ear?"

"Just a bit. Not too much." Jason hesitated, reluctant to say more, but he knew all too well it was better for him to feed some truth into the gossip machine than to let it fabricate something ridiculous out of bits and pieces picked up around the village. Still, he had to be careful with his method of delivery. "Had a difference of opinion with the head of the department."

"He got you fired."

"Yeah, he did but I helped it along. So I'm home for a bit while I look for another position."

Andy set down the scissors and took the clipper from its stand. "Their loss."

Jason opened his eyes. Andy glanced at him in the mirror as he made sure the clipper head was clear. He offered a slight smile, but his gaze was steady. Jason felt an odd tug deep inside. Of course his family, his childhood, was well known to everyone in the village; he knew some people still considered him a bad seed. A show of support was a rarity.

"Thanks." A moment later the buzz of the clipper put an end to talk for a while.

There was a considerable amount of hair on the floor when Andy removed the cloth drape. He gave Jason a quick cleanup to get the last of the stray hairs, then took down the large hand mirror and held it behind Jason's head. "Everything all right?"

Jason looked in the mirror, though he already knew Andy had done a good job, and not just with his hair. "Yeah, looks good. Thanks."

He paid with a generous tip as usual, went out to the truck, paused, and headed down the street to Lou's. It was early, but he knew David would be in the back, at work on food prep and a dozen other chores.

David came to the service door with his link in his hand—clearly he thought Jason was a driver with a delivery. When he saw who it was he smiled and tossed the link aside, opened the door and enveloped Jason in a hug that nearly crushed the breath out of him. "Jason, so good to see you! Come in, come in! It's been a while since you stopped by, how's it going?" They entered the kitchen. Jason took a deep breath. He smelled fresh yeasty dough and sauce, chopped herbs, warm olive oil, baked cheese . . . This was as familiar as Mom's kitchen, and home too. "Have a seat, have a seat! Tell me what's going on with you!" David got two Cokes from the cooler, popped the tops and set them on the counter as Jason pulled up a stool. "Back from work for a while, huh? I heard you were in town."

"Yeah," Jason said. He claimed a soda and took a long pull, savored the sweetness and carbonation. David sat down on the other stool and wiped his hands on a towel tossed on the counter. His smile faded a little.

"What's up?"

Jason almost sighed. Here was another person to whom he'd have to explain things. Not that he minded with David, but being forced to repeatedly air his private life was painful. "Before we get into that, how are you?"

"I'm good. Family's doing well. Marina asked about you the other day, wanted to know when you were coming home." His smile brightened. "She's still got that crush on you."

Jason squirmed. "Uh . . . that's . . . weird."

"She's twelve, she's allowed. Everything else is going well." David tilted his head. "Now tell me what's happened."

Jason kept to the facts, but left nothing out. He knew the older man would not gossip or betray his trust. When he was done David said nothing at first. When he did speak, his voice was quiet.

"I know you came here to ask for your old job back. I won't deny I could use you. You're the best worker I've ever had. But you need to go to the clinic first and talk to Rob Chase."

Jason stared at David. "Did House say something to you?"

"He didn't have to. Go to the clinic. Then come back here, if you want to." David put a hand on his shoulder. "It's the right thing to do, you'll see."

Jason took the Coke with him, along with a leftover slice from the previous day's communal pizza David always made for the kitchen workers. He munched as he drove through the village, the route engraved in his brain after years of use in all seasons and weather.

Of course the clinic looked much the same as it always did. A dozen cars and bikes showed the morning staff and several of the doctors were in attendance. Jason parked Minnie in one of the back spaces by the lilacs. He ate the rest of the pizza, guzzled some Coke, burped hard and loud to get it out of his system, wiped his face and shirt with napkin he'd snagged, and went to the back door. He pressed the announcer.

"How can I help you?" It wasn't McMurphy now, she'd died in her sleep a few years back and Jason still knew a fierce rush of grief at her absence. She'd been something of an older sister to him, and he missed her sly humor and wise counsel. She'd been the one to teach him about respect for nurses, lessons he'd put to good use at Mass General. "Mrs. Nelson, it's Jason Goldman."

"Hey Jason! Come in!" The buzzer sounded and he opened the door, stepped inside. "Doctor Chase said you might stop by this week." Mrs. Nelson was resplendent in a new set of antibacterial scrubs in a glowing peach and coral print; she was also the epitome of cheerfulness. Jason would bet his stethoscope House hated that outfit and her attitude with a fiery passion. She waved a hand at Chase's office. "Go on in, he's expecting you."

Rob sat at his desk with his feet propped on the blotter, hands behind his head, eyes closed. A case file sat open on his thighs. Jason knocked on the door. "C'mon in," Rob said, eyes still closed. "About time you showed up, you slacker. Shut the door behind you."

Jason obeyed and came in, to take the visitor's chair directly across from the desk. He sat down, ill at ease and not sure what would happen next.

"Got yourself kicked out of Mass General."

"Yeah."

"No fellowship, no job."

"That's about the size of it." Jason sat back a bit. "House said I was supposed to see you."

"Huh." Rob opened one eye. "Lemme see your resume."

"What?" Jason stared at him in shock. "My what?"

"Your _curriculum vitae_, your stats. Lemme see 'em."

"I—I didn't—I don't have a hard copy with me."

Rob opened the other eye. "Why not?"

"I—" Jason mustered his wits. "I thought House sent me here for you to—to give me advice or something."

Rob closed the file and set it on the desk, then folded his arms and gave Jason a direct hard stare. He didn't speak for some time, until Jason's gaze dropped from his. When he did speak, there wasn't an ounce of warmth or friendliness in his voice. "It's a damn good thing you lost that position and the fellowship."

Jason's head shot up. Whatever he'd expected from Rob, it wasn't this. "Why do you say that?"

"Anyone with half a functioning brain would have known House was setting up a job interview for you, yet here you are in a tee shirt and jeans with no resume, taking up my valuable time because you think following the basic instructions is enough." Rob snorted. "You've been the smart guy in a crowd of idiots for far too long. It's made you lazy."

Jason felt his face grow warm. "That's not—"

"Yeah, it is. Take it from someone who knows what he's talking about. You start down that path, it leads to bad things." Rob re-crossed his legs. "You've got five minutes to geta hard copy of your resume printed out and on my desk." He closed his eyes once more. Jason got to his feet and left the office, surprised to find his palms were sweaty and his heart rate up. He would have to ask a favor or two of Mrs. Nelson . . .

It took her help to get the printer to co-operate, but Jason was able to hand over the requested document with ten seconds to spare. He sat down as Rob paged through it, then dumped it on the desktop next to the file.

"Tell me why I should hire you."

Jason felt as if someone had thrown him into the deep end of the pool with a cement block chained to his feet. "I don't know—I didn't—" He took a breath, steadied his mind. _Be honest_,he told himself. "I'm—I'm good at diagnostics. And I like it."

Rob continued to stare at him. "Cardiology and rheumatology," he said. "Care to explain why you made those specialties your focus?"

That was easy. Jason relaxed just a bit. "If I couldn't get a gig as a diagnostician, I could always find work in a clinic. Plenty of old people around." Jason hesitated. "And because of Poppi Lou."

Rob's hard stare didn't soften. He flipped the file folder shut and put it in front of Jason. "Take a look and tell me what you think. I don't need to remind you about confidentiality."

Jason took the file. His fingers shook, he noted in an absent manner. It was weird to work with a paper file, hardly anyone used them now, but when he opened the folder he found the layout and structure was somewhat similar to the electronic note-taking software in use for some years now. As he read through the comments and exam notes he felt his anxiety fade. This was known territory, as familiar to him as the back of his hand.

"Patient is a female Caucasian twenty years of age, height one hundred sixty five point five centimeters, weight fifty-four kilograms," he said aloud. Information always settled better in his head if he spoke it. "Patient has chronic headaches, blurry vision, shortness of breath, malaise and is hypertensive. Upon examination, patient displays different pulses in left and right arms and complains of pain in the extremities. Bloodwork . . ." He flipped the page, took in the stats. "The sed rate and c-reactive proteins indicate inflammation . . . MRI shows some narrowing of arteries in the arms." He looked up at Rob. "I think I know what this is," he said, and exhaled as the answer settled into his mind. "Takayasu arteritis. I'll bet anything there's blockage or narrowing of the aorta and some if not all the primary branches, probably even the large arteries in the limbs. Angiography and a 3D scan will confirm it." He closed the file and handed it back to Rob, who took it and continued to stare at him.

"Why are you sure it's Takayasu?"

"I'm ninety-five percent sure it's Takayasu," Jason said absently, still absorbed in the way it all fit together. "Symptoms paired with age and gender of the patient and the fact that she's here instead of in a hospital or cardiology clinic, all that indicates something rare. From the number of older notes and tests in her file, her family's been looking for an answer for some time, so this likely isn't just a case of a congenital defect or damage from drug abuse or some infectious disease. A doctor used to seeing those things would have picked up on them. But it would be a good idea to re-do some basic tests to make sure."

"Why aren't you one hundred percent sure?" Rob shot the question at him. Jason blinked.

"Because in this case there's no way to know completely what's going on. We have a good amount of information but not enough. Another physical exam and the angiography should give us more to work with." He smiled just a little. "Besides, it was you who taught me a doctor can't be one hundred percent sure of anything. There's always an outside chance something else is going on."

For a few moments Rob didn't speak. At last he nodded his head. "Let me consult with the powers that be about your diagnosis. We'll be back to you within the week about hiring you. Get the application form completed and submitted by the end of the day." He nodded at the door. "Mrs. Nelson will show you out." He picked up the file and opened it, set it on his thighs, tipped his head back and closed his eyes once more.

Jason got to his feet. He felt as if someone had hit him hard over the head and dumped him into an alternate universe, where no one here at the clinic knew who he was. "Uh—fine, okay. Thanks," he added, and left.

He was escorted to the door by a sympathetic Mrs. Nelson. "Don't be a stranger," she said, and buzzed the back door open.

"Yeah, right," Jason muttered. He fired up Minnie and went back to Lou's. Once there, he parked by the delivery entrance and called home.

"How did the interview go?" Mom wanted to know. Jason knew a surge of exasperation very much like the one he'd felt when he woke that morning.

"You could have told me it was about a job, Mom."

"Jason, I love you more than my life, but sometimes you're so completely unaware of what's going on, you need a good thump on the noggin to wake you up," Mom said in a tart tone. "I take it you're at Lou's."

"Yeah. If it's okay I'll work here for a while and come home later."

"Fine by me if David's all right with it. If you bring home some pizza and onion rings, you'll make your parents delirious with joy. Take that as an order. I'll split the cost with you when you get home." She paused. "Love you," she said softly, and he heard the smile in her voice.

After the call he went into the kitchen. David was hard at work as he divided dough into containers. At Jason's appearance he raised his brows but smiled, and nodded at the drawer where the clean aprons were kept. Jason took one and put it on. As he tied the strings around his waist he pushed away the worry and speculation that held his thoughts in a tangle, and concentrated on the tasks at hand.

"So you're here for a while?" David said finally.

"If that's okay with you," Jason said. David laughed.

"You're already wearing an apron, I'd say it's fine by me." He wiped his hands on a towel. "I'll take your help for as long as you have time to give it." He glanced at the swing door as it pushed open and a head poked in.

"I'm in the weeds here and you're standing around laughing?" the head said. Jason realized it belonged to a local—Julie someone, he couldn't remember her last name. She narrowed her eyes at him, then returned her stare to David.

"I'll be out to help in a minute or two," David said, his tone mild. "Send the orders in and we'll send them out. You know how this works. Stop being a drama queen just because you're bored."

The head glared at him, gave Jason another considering look, then withdrew as David consulted the screen. "One large pie, sausage extra cheese, California on the side, two Cokes," he said, and the work day officially began.

_well when I get back to the country_

_I'll be livin' in a tent_

_Mom and Dad will sure be mad at all the money I spent_

_now I know just what they meant_

_I'm not broke but brother I'm badly bent _

'_I'm Not Broke But I'm Badly Bent,' Old &amp; In the Way, H. Payne, composer_


	18. Chapter 18

_May 20th_

It's late by the time Greg enters his study and settles into his treasured old Eames chair, sets the bottle of Booker's and a shot glass on the desk, and sits down with link in hand. He takes a moment to enjoy the ambience; the door is open a bit so he can see Roz watch the ball game. She's curled up on the couch with the cat as they both enjoy the soft breeze as it comes in the window. It's a fine night, warm and dry, and the stars are out. Maybe after the game they'll sit out for a while. It always feels good to be outside after a long winter, stuck in house to car to clinic and back . . . He pours a generous shot of bourbon, takes a sip. The familiar sweet, smoky fire fills his mouth, travels to his belly. He savors the feeling and sips again, draws in a deep breath. Then he says "Call Wilson."

The call is answered fairly quickly. "House," Wilson says. He sounds happy. That's always such a shock. The Wilson of days gone by never sounded like this. 'Pleasant but guarded' would have been a better description, with the unspoken question _what do you want from me?_ behind every word. "Haven't heard from you in a while! How are you? How's Roz? What's up?"

Greg rolls his eyes. "Jesus, I _hate_ it when you're chirpy."

There's a little silence, and then that rueful chuckle Greg knows all too well. "Yeah, I imagine you do. Gonna answer any of my questions?"

"Fine, fine, nada," Greg says, and slurps a little bourbon.

"Still drinking that hard stuff. There goes your repair protocol."

"Still a nag. There goes your reputation as a reformed _yenta_."

"It's a wonder your liver hasn't jumped out of your body and run shrieking down the street." Wilson sounds more amused than exasperated.

"There's a mental image," Greg says. "I suppose you're gonna tell me how the rug rat's doing."

"Daniel's great." Wilson's voice softens just a little. "Krys and I went to his first concert yesterday."

"A little Mozart played out of tune and you're all _verklempt_. I always said you were pathetically easy to please." Greg remembers the vid Wilson sent a month ago. The kid plays violin well for a nine year old; he's got a flair for the instrument, and he likes to play—a combination that bodes well. "It still amazes me you ended up with a musician."

"Us too," Wilson says on a laugh. "It has to come from Krys's side. No one in my family could play so much as a comb and tissue paper."

Greg snorts and sits back a bit. "Got him signed up for Juilliard already, no doubt."

"Actually no. He's more interested in writing." Wilson sounds so proud. "Mandy's been a big help there. She's read some of his stories and said she'd edit them if he wants to work with her."

For just one moment Greg sees a little girl with Roz's dark hair and green eyes at the piano, small, clever hands on the keys. He sends the memory and the pain back to the lockbox where he keeps them, hidden deep inside. "Nice."

"Yeah." Wilson is silent a moment. "How's everything going with Jason?"

Greg won't enter that minefield unless he's cornered. "Ask him."

"I'm already talking to you, so why not just tell me?"

"You haven't known me too long, apparently," Greg says. He enjoys this game when they talk; he's missed it more than he ever lets on.

"True," Wilson says in that sarcastic tone he does so well. "Didn't we meet at a bar mitzvah?"

"That was me wearing the _moyel_ costume out on the street, waving people in. Sort of a Jewish Pollo Loco."

"Thought that was you."

"I wanted to be chicken soup, but they couldn't find a bowl big enough to hold my matzoh balls."

Wilson snorts out a laugh. "Jason must be okay if you're able to make bad jokes."

Greg hesitates. "You know what happened." Truth be told, he's dreaded this moment. This brings back a lot of bad memories from his days at PPTH—arguments, scoldings, lectures, long-suffering silences, even that perennial favorite, 'We aren't friends, House'.

"I know a little. Sarah told me a few general details." Now it's Wilson who pauses, and Greg realizes he's afraid too, worried he'll say something that will cause problems. "He lost his chance at the cardiology fellowship."

"Plenty more where that came from," Greg says in his best casual manner.

"I doubt Jason sees it that way at the moment," Wilson says wryly. "Are you offering him a place at the clinic?"

Greg doesn't answer right away. "I don't know why you think I'd do that."

"You were the one who told him about writing papers," Wilson says. There's an edge to that statement, but it's not an accusation, not quite.

"Yeah, I did," Greg says. He knows his own tone says _make something of it, I dare you_.

"And you don't feel any responsibility for what's happened?"

"He wanted options, I gave him options. It was his choice to follow them or not."

"Yeah, but you also had a choice in the kind of options you gave him," Wilson says. "Did it ever occur to you that writing papers would cause trouble?"

"Options is options," Greg says.

"And consequences are consequences. Did you even think of that?"

"Only if you get caught."

"You would say that," Wilson says, and then falls silent. Greg waits for the lecture sure to come his way, but all he gets is dead air.

"Go ahead," he says after a few moments.

"Go ahead with what?"

"There's more, right? You can't wait to tell me what a dickwad I am, how I've corrupted an innocent kid, blah blah."

"I think you just said it yourself," Wilson says in that dry tone Greg knows well. "You don't need me to play Jewish chorus."

"He'll survive. I did." Greg is surprised to hear himself say that. He didn't mean to.

"And so the fact that you're an insane genius and have been since day one doesn't factor into any of this," Wilson says, heavy on the sarcasm now, which makes Greg smile a little.

"You're only crazy if your theories don't pan out. Mine do."

"This from a man who stuck a knife in a wall outlet to find out if there's an afterlife."

"When empirical evidence is lacking, personal experience has to take its place," Greg says, ever the voice of reason. "I was going for direct contact."

"And you got it. With some nasty burns too." Wilson sighs. "You never did say what happened after you coded."

"Losing the cardiology fellowship won't destroy Goldman's life," Greg says—a neat evasion, something at which he excels. "He'll find another program to latch onto and make everyone miserable with his integrity."

"Ah yes, integrity, that last bastion of small minds." Wilson shakes his head, Greg just knows it. "Fine, don't tell me anything."

"Call him yourself and stop fishing," Greg says, and finishes off the shot. He contemplates another one, shrugs and goes for it.

"You're the one who called me, remember."

"Butt dial."

"You're wearing your link on your ass now? Who could believe such an astounding sartorial choice without photographic evidence?" Wilson suggested.

"Ass-tounding, that's pretty good." Greg can't help but smile. "You're coming out to visit soon."

Wilson took the change in topic without comment. "June, I think. Krys is the one in charge of schedules and flights. I just tell her when I can get the time off."

Greg's interest sharpens. "Read your last paper. Not bad. Your researchers are crap though."

"You mean they're not your fellows," Wilson says. "My people are the best on the West Coast." He says it with pride. "We might not get the rare stuff, but we're making inroads on the cancers that still kill people every day."

He's got a point. "Never thought you'd go in for research. You're a people person."

"No," Wilson says after a thoughtful pause. "No, I'm not really." That's a surprise. Greg says nothing, just waits. Wilson sighs softly. "I was . . . I'm addicted to pleasing people. A practice here would be . . . a bad idea. But retirement was boring. Gardening and cooking only fill up so much time. So . . . I decided to give research a try, and it's—it's—"

"Interesting," Greg says quietly.

"Yeah," Wilson says. "_Yeah_, it is. I like it." He pauses as someone on his side of things says something—a boy's voice, raised in a questioning tone. "House—I have to go. I'll have Krys send you our itinerary." He hesitates again. "You—you're okay?"

"A little late to ask," Greg says, and knows a distant amusement.

"I really want to know."

Greg relents just a bit. "'mfine. You'd better be too."

"I'm doing pretty good, thanks." There's a smile in Wilson's voice. "'night, House."

"'night, Wilson."

He sits there for a while after the call's ended, goes over their conversation, dissects the nuances, the unspoken words. He is pleased to find their friendship is in good shape—some tension here and there, but that's normal for them. It actually makes things more interesting.

"Still not boring," he says, and closes the bottle of bourbon. He downs the last of the second shot, gets up, and goes into the living room to watch baseball with his wife.


	19. Chapter 19

_June 3rd_

Jason slid the last of the pizzas in the oven and shut the door, hung up the paddle and grabbed the salads he'd just made. He set them on the tray along with a fresh bread basket and went out into the dining area. The place was full, noisy with talk, laughter and music; David stood at the cash register and chatted with a small group of customers as he rang up their bill, while Julie flitted from table to table and took orders. Jason gave her a swift glance as he brought the tray to the side middle two-top. The couple there were retirees, probably farm people from the looks of them. Older people meant more demands and probably no tip. He'd learned long ago to just handle it and not get annoyed, there was no point.

"Here are your salads. Your pizza's in the oven now," he said. "How about fresh drinks?" As he accepted the half-empty glasses he saw Julie headed his way. He straightened and moved into the kitchen just before she did, so that she was right behind him.

"You wanna get out of my way?" she growled at him, but he could tell she didn't mean it. "God, we're slammed out there! This is ridiculous, David needs to get someone in on Fridays."

"Just deal with it," Jason said, and dumped the drinks. He got clean cups and did the refills, took a quick check of the pizzas, and went back out. As he set the cups on the table the woman pushed her salad away and said in a pettish tone,

"This isn't the dressing I ordered. Ranch, not vinaigrette, and on the side."

Half the salad was gone, and Jason remembered the order screen for this table very clearly, but he took the salad bowl. "I'll be right back," he said quietly, "my apologies for the mistake, ma'am," and went back to the kitchen. Julie was still there. She put a bread basket on her tray and gave him an inquisitive look.

"What's up?"

"Changing out a salad," Jason said, and dumped the bowl into the compost can. "The order was wrong."

"What was wrong with it? They both ate their salads."

"One of them had the wrong dressing."

Julie bristled. "Like hell it was. I heard what she told you and saw the screen, both orders matched."

"Yeah they did, but it's not worth fighting over." Jason opened the _bain-marie_ and began to construct a new salad in a new bowl. "David doesn't want us to argue with the customers."

"So we're supposed to let people scam us out of stuff because David doesn't want to get people upset? That's fucked up!"

"It's good for business," Jason said, and selected a cup of ranch dressing from the fridge. He took the salad out to the dining area and presented it to the customer. "I'm sorry for the mistake," he said again. "Your pizza's coming up shortly."

"I'm sure it'll be fine," the man said, and nodded at Jason with something like an apology in his gaze.

After that the pizzas were ready, and there was the usual push to get them sliced and served. By the end of it David came back just as Jason started on the next batch of orders. "Take a break," he said. "Fifteen minutes. I got this covered."

Jason wasn't about to say no. He took off his apron, grabbed two slices of the communal pie and a Coke out of the cooler, and went out on the back step. It was a warm and muggy night, and as a consequence even with fans on, the kitchen was a furnace, but out here at least the air was fresh. He sat down and devoured a slice in half a bite, ravenous. After work he planned to enjoy a cold beer or two and watch one of the ball games on the evening stream before he took a shower and climbed into bed. He thought of Mandy, but she was in the middle of plans for a promotional tour and would keep odd hours for the next week or so.

He munched his pizza, swatted away an errant gnat, wiped the sweat from his forehead, and refused to give in to the worry that sat at the back of his mind. It had been nearly three weeks since he'd seen Rob Chase and sent in his application for the fellowship at House's clinic. He hadn't heard a word from anyone in that time, despite Rob's assurance they'd contact him. He'd already started the search for another fellowship and had submitted several applications; today he'd widened his parameters and sent out a few more. It would be a mistake to presume on his long association with the clinic, Rob and House; it was clear they would hire him only if they felt he was a good fit, and apparently they didn't.

Jason bit into another slice and contemplated his situation. He had a small window of time before fellowship positions would be filled, and he'd be locked out. That didn't mean he couldn't be employed, but without team experience on his resume, he'd have a much harder time of it. And to wait another year would be a mark against him—invisible but still present. His link beeped—his break was done. With a sigh he stuffed in the rest of the slice, got up and went inside.

There was a sort of comfort in the dead boring routine of the kitchen, broken up a bit by forays into the dining area to help out Julie and David. They managed, but Julie was right—they did need someone to help out on Fridays when they were slammed. Over the Memorial Day weekend they'd barely kept up even at a flat-out run.

By midnight the place was empty. Jason gathered up the bus cart overloaded with dirty tableware and pushed it into the kitchen. His feet hurt and his back ached, but in a tired sort of way that he knew from long experience would mostly disappear once he made it home to relax in front of the tv, and got some sleep.

"Go home," David said, as he always did. "It's late, I'll take care of this."

"No, I'll do it. That's what you pay me for," Jason said, as _he_ always did.

"I'll help," Julie said. Both men stared at her. She stared back, defiance in every line of her expression.

"Okay," Jason said, and glanced at David. He raised his brows but gave a slight shrug.

"Fine, you work on the tables, Jason does the dishes and kitchen cleanup and I'll sweep."

Jason nodded. He pulled the bus cart to the sink, got the compost can and began to clean and sort out plates, bowls, cups and silverware. He angled his stance a bit so he could watch Julie out of the corner of his eye, since the swing door was propped open now to get some cross-ventilation in the kitchen. He wasn't quite sure why he did it; there was really nothing special about her. She was a year younger than he was, he vaguely remembered her in a couple of his classes in high school. She hadn't changed all that much since then, beyond a new haircut and clothes. She was of average height, with thick, wavy hair that was light reddish-brown, a color he'd heard his mother call 'chestnut', and blue-grey eyes; her skin was tanned but it didn't look as if she tried deliberately to get it that way. She had a somewhat pear-shaped figure, though she wasn't fat; her features were regular and pleasing, if unremarkable. And yet there was something about her . . . He couldn't figure out what it was, and that bothered him.

It took some time before the old Hobart steam cleaner ran through its cycle. While it clanked and hissed and thumped, Jason cleaned the kitchen and set everything to rights for the morning. He'd be in early to do food prep and get set up for the weekend shopper lunch rush. There would be time to sort out the cooler though, and make sure the inventory matched the delivery sheets. It was a job he enjoyed, mainly because he liked to create order out of mild chaos. As a result of his efforts the walk-in was even more clean and tidy, with shelves scrubbed and stock rotated and dated. David had given him a nice bonus for the extra work, money Jason had put into his depleted account. At least he earned enough to keep up payments on his loan, and the bonus gave him a decent slush fund for his expenses.

"What's left?" Julie stood in the doorway. Jason wiped his hands on his apron.

"Just need to put the containers from the _bain-marie_ in the cooler," he said. Julie came forward.

"I can help."

She didn't talk while they loaded the covered containers in their slots; it was clear she was familiar with the chore. She worked in an easy, relaxed way that told Jason she was used to repetitive chores and didn't mind them. Once the task was done she took off her apron and folded it over her arm. He couldn't help but notice her slender, wiry muscles as they bunched and released under smooth brown skin. "See you tomorrow," she said, and slipped into the quiet kitchen. Jason didn't say anything, just watched as she put her handprint in the time clock and left. The screen door swung open and shut in near silence. After a few moments Jason went into the dining area to find David about to put away the sweeper.

"Good receipts tonight," he said, and flashed Jason a tired smile. "Go on home, we're done here. Anything else can wait till tomorrow."

Jason stayed to make sure David locked up and left safely; then he started Minnie Lou and headed for home. It was a soft warm night, so he drove with the windows down, slow enough to enjoy the glimmer of the lightning bugs in the fields as they mirrored the starry sky above. The green, clean smell of new-cut hay rolled in now and then, to compete with the faint earthy stink of the compost can. Mom would be happy to add the contents to her pile. She repaid David with plenty of basil and oregano from the garden, and dried enormous quantities of both in the solar dryer for him to use through the winter, a bargain which suited both parties well.

The back porch light was on when he pulled into the side yard and parked Minnie in the shelter he and Dad had built a few years ago. He unlocked the mudroom door and paused as something fluttered to the floor—a paper note folded in half, tucked into the space between door and jamb. He picked it up and opened it. A bold, tangled scrawl jumped out at him—House's handwriting, he recognized it right away.

_Monday 8 a.m. sharp. Bring your own stethoscope and stop at Rick's before you come in. _

Jason stared at the words. Then the meaning sank in. After a moment he passed a hand over his face and let go a deep breath he hadn't even known he'd held.

When he went into the living room he found Mom still awake. She'd stayed up to talk with him every night he'd worked; he found he liked to know she would be there, ready to help him wind down. Now he came over, sat down next to her on the couch and handed her the paper. She took it with raised brows, read it. When she looked up again, her gaze held joy, and love tinged with amusement. Without a word she gave him back the paper, got up and went into the kitchen. When she returned it was with a bottle of Glenfiddich and two tumblers. She poured them both a shot and held up her drink. "To Doctor Jason Goldman, House's new fellow," she said. Jason took his tumbler and touched it gently to hers. The enormity of those words both thrilled and terrified him.

"To someone who never gave up," he said, "thanks Mom," and drank with her.

When at last he gained his bedroom, he opened the top drawer of his night stand, and found the box where he kept his notes from Mom. He tucked this one in with the other papers, put the box away, turned out the light and got into bed. He was asleep almost before his head hit the pillow.


	20. Chapter 20

_June 6th_

Sarah woke to the first rosy streaks of light outside her window. She blinked and yawned, stretched a bit. The oscillating fan across the room blew a strand of curls into her eye; she pushed it away and sat up, while her mind sorted out the details of coming to awareness. Beside her Gene lay face-down in the pillow as he snored softly. She put a hand on his back and rubbed gently. "Hey," she whispered. "Hey, love. Wake up. It's our boy's first day as a fellow at the practice."

After a few moments Gene stirred. "Mmmmmph."

Sarah smiled. "Come down when you're ready." She gave him a final caress and got to her feet.

The house was quiet as she crept down the stairs and through the living room to the kitchen, to find Jason already there and at work. He slid a pan of cinnamon rolls into the oven and turned as she came in.

"Good morning," Sarah said softly. "Hard time sleeping?"

"Yeah. Think I got about two hours total." Jason closed the oven door and ran a hand through his hair. He was still in his sleep shorts—no doubt a concession to living at home, Sarah thought wryly—and it was clear he hadn't yet taken a shower.

"Sit down and I'll make you some coffee." He took a seat at the breakfast counter and yawned, rolled his shoulders a bit. Sarah paused, struck by how very adult he looked in that moment. She still often thought of him as the small, skinny kid they'd taken in, with about as much muscle as a pipe cleaner. He'd filled out nicely. It was hard to believe this tall, lean, and very handsome young man was her son. Then he looked at her, and she relaxed. Her boy was still there inside the grownup. "Do you have clean underwear for your first day?" she asked. Jason assumed a long-suffering look, but she sensed humor under the affront. This was an old and treasured game between the two of them.

"_Mom_."

"Just asking," she said, and did her best to sound innocent. "What are you wearing?" She dumped some grounds into the filter.

"I've got one summer weight suit," Jason said, and yawned again. "Thought it would look good with my green shirt."

Sarah resolved to get him some new suits. He needed them; not that he looked bad in what he had, but a couple more wouldn't hurt. "That should work."

"Mom, I don't need new clothes." Jason watched her pour in the filtered water.

"Oh, so now you're psychic?"

"I don't have to be psychic. You always spoil me."

"I'm your mother, I'm allowed." She closed the maker and flipped the switch. "How nervous are you?"

Jason got up to take two mugs from the dish rack. "On a one-ten scale? Seven."

Sarah almost smiled at this brisk assessment, so typical of her boy and his rational mindset. "What has you worried?"

Jason didn't answer right away. "I'm not sure," he said slowly.

"Well it can't be because you don't know the people," Sarah said. She suspected it was _because_ he knew them, but she wanted him to figure it out. Jason got the table cream from the fridge.

"I think that's the problem," he said, and brought over the cream and the sugar bowl. "They know me, but it's the me from high school and pre-med. I haven't been home enough over the last eight years for them to see what's changed, what I've accomplished, aside from the stats in my resume. I'll have to show them, and I don't know . . . I'm not sure I can."

"Well you won't be able to do it all in one day anyway," Sarah said, as fresh coffee began to gurgle into the pot. "It'll take time. Greg wouldn't have hired you if he didn't think you were up for the work. He put you through your paces, the same way he did when he took you on in high school."

"Yeah," Jason said, and ran a hand over his head again. "He'll squeeze as much work out of me as he can, if I go by previous experience. Guess I should get cleaned up."

"You do that. I'll have breakfast ready when you come back."

He shuffled off to the bathroom, and Sarah hid a smile. It usually took him an hour or so to wake, with the help of some coffee or tea. Once he was sufficiently caffeinated he did fine. And he was a bottomless pit with a fast metabolism, much like Greg. On that thought she got to work.

When Jason returned finally, everything was ready. Sarah gave him a casual glance that still took in everything top to bottom. He wore a dark natural-linen suit jacket over a pale olive-green shirt, and khaki trousers paired with his broken-in white trainers, exactly the right footwear for someone who'd be on his feet most of the day. With his hair recently cut and the decent tailoring of the clothes, to her eyes at least he was every inch the young professional. "Good," she said finally. "You look good."

"Thanks." Jason poured a mug of coffee and stirred in some sugar. "Okay if I take lunch with me?"

"Of course. I can loan you Dad's old lunch set if it's not too uncool to use it." Sarah cut some rolls free and piled them on a plate. "There's scrambled eggs with toast, help yourself."

Jason made a good breakfast—even nerves had never affected his appetite that much. While he ate Sarah put together a couple of sandwiches, a bag of pretzels, a banana, some chocolate, and a bottle of homemade iced tea. She packed Gene's old canvas lunch bag, a little battered and worn now but still serviceable, and set it on the counter by the door. "You can take Minnie if you want," she said. "I don't plan to go anywhere today, so you won't have to worry about coming home at a certain time."

"About that—coming home." Jason put his fork on his plate, eyes averted. "I'd—I'd like to talk to you and Dad about—living here. For a while, anyway. If it's okay with you."

Sarah had to make sure her voice was steady before she answered. "I can speak for Dad when I say we would love to have you stay as long as you want."

"I can sleep in the barn."

"You don't have to. Your old room is yours if you want it, you know that. If you're more comfortable in the barn though . . ." She hesitated. "Whatever you choose is fine."

"It would be a big help to get the loan paid off." He fell silent. "I haven't seen much of you and Dad the last few years. I've missed both of you."

"We missed you too, but we understand your reasons," Gene said from the doorway. "That's a natural course of events, to move away from your family a bit when you're at school." He yawned and moved to the coffeemaker, got a mug.

"I'm glad you understand, because I don't." Jason wouldn't look at either of them. "I don't know why but I kept thinking if I left Boston, I wouldn't be able to come back and pick things up again. I had to stay . . ."

"To keep the momentum going," Sarah said quietly.

He fidgeted with a button on his jacket. "I know it hurt you both when I didn't make it home for holidays."

"Jason." Gene waited until he finally lifted his gaze. "You don't have to apologize. Your mother and I were grad students once too. We're not that old that we can't remember what it was like."

"Thanks." He was silent a moment, then glanced at his link. "I'd better get going."

They waited until he was ready to go out the door; then Sarah came forward and gave him a gentle embrace, careful not to crush his jacket or shirt. "You have no idea, _no_ idea, how proud I am of you, my beautiful boy," she whispered, and it was the truth, finally. She'd discovered that during her talks with Prof, once she set aside the hurt and sadness. Those feelings were still there, but she'd managed to get them in perspective. Eventually they would talk together about what happened, but it could wait now, for the right time—not _her_ right time alone, but everyone's. "I hope your first day is a good one, _m'chridhe_."

To her surprise he returned her embrace with an eagerness she hadn't seen from him in years. He held her close, heedless of his clothes, and said nothing, but she felt him tremble and knew his feelings without a word from him. She held on until at last he relaxed a bit, his cheek against her hair.

"You already know they'll give you a tough time today, to see what you're made of," Gene said. He put a hand on Jason's shoulder, gave it a squeeze. "Roll with it, you can do this."

"What your dad said," Sarah said, and patted his back gently. "Don't forget to stop at Rick's." She'd already paid for the doughnuts; they'd be ready when he went in to order. Jason let go, then stooped down and kissed her cheek, and gave Dad a one-armed hug

"Thanks," he whispered, and then he was gone. Sarah watched him stride across the yard, the early morning sun bright on his dark hair, and closed her eyes for a moment to wish him well.

"He'll be fine," Gene said. "By the end of the week he'll be complaining about the clinic hours and how House has it in for him."

Sarah nodded, her throat tight. "I know." She turned away from the door. "Let's do breakfast in bed and goof off for the rest of the day."

Gene studied her, brows raised. "All right," he said mildly. "Prof's leaving tomorrow, how about we take him out to dinner tonight?"

She nodded. Gene put an arm around her shoulders. Sarah relaxed into his touch.

"Last one to finish a cinnamon roll gets to do the dishes," she said, and moved with him into the kitchen.


	21. Chapter 21

Today's the day.

Well, it's a big day for Goldman. For Greg, not so much. In his world it's just another morning where he sleeps in and lies abed as he listens to his wife do housework (a rather pleasant background noise, he must admit), emerges eventually to swill excellent coffee, eat some breakfast and sort through the mail, snark at the cat who pesters him for food, and shamble off to get dressed. He ought to be bored out of his skull, but he knows he's got a remedy for that: an endless all-access pass to the practice. Even better, today he'll sit in on the whiteboard discussion for the patients, and watch Goldman in action as a physician for the first time: a new fellow who competes with the status quo, always an enjoyable angstfest.

He takes his time in the shower, trims his scruff a little. After some deliberation he puts on a clean black tee, his favorite blue oxford shirt (the one Roz likes because it she says matches the color of his eyes), his most comfortable jeans, and his best sneaks. Once he's dressed he ambles into the living room, where Roz is just finished the dusting. She has on a favorite old tank top and a pair of cutoffs, and there's some godawful caterwauling on the stream, to which she prances around and sings along softly.

_do you remember there was a time_

_when people on the street _

_were walking hand in hand in hand_

_they used to talk about the weather _

_making plans together _

_days would last forever_

Greg pauses, remembers a moment long ago when he watched her dance in a grocery store aisle. She'd spun like an ecstatic Sufi, arms out, slender legs graceful. He feels again the shock of realization, the knowledge she was more than he'd ever understood—the beauty inside her, a joy in the simple delight of music; a love they shared. He savors that memory, still as bright as when it happened. Then he moves forward to stand in front of her. She comes to a halt, looks him over as her eyes widen. She puts a hand on her hip. "You look _good_," she says in approval. He gives her a brief grin.

"See you later," he says, and leans in to kiss her. He makes it a scorcher, hot and sweet with the promise of his return home, when he'll taste every inch of her. When it ends she looks up at him, and the love and amusement in her gaze is the best thing he's seen so far today.

"'Together we'll break these chains of love'," she dares to sing in her homely voice—a sign of immense trust, he knows. She flashes him her lovely smile.

"Dance me out of the house," he orders, and she laughs but does as he asks. When he makes it to the kitchen door and turns back she's at work once more, and swings her hips from side to side. On that delicious sight he takes his leave.

The day is already a warm one, and the air is thick with humidity. As Barbarella glides toward the village he can see thunderheads form to the west as hot moist air rises into the cold, dry Canadian downflow; they'll have storms later this afternoon. It's a good thing, he's heard farmers in town complain about the lack of rain, and the guy who leases his fields has managed only one cutting of hay so far.

He pulls into his spot and is gratified to see Minnie Lou at the far end of the lot. So, Goldman understands parking etiquette. That's a bit of a surprise; his protégé tends to ignore niceties. But then he's been away at school for some time now. Perhaps his experience with human foibles has changed his naïve viewpoint at long last.

When Greg enters, he's relieved to find Nelson at the reception desk. She at least doesn't flutter around him and carry on like a brainless twit the way Lang does. Nelson is sturdy, impassive and unflappable. As he passes her desk she says "Coffee's fresh and Wayne brought in banana bread. Try it, it's good."

"Mmf," he says, and heads to the kitchen.

Ten minutes later he's ensconced in his office, feet propped on the blotter and a plate piled with several slices of banana bread. The slices are thick with butter and honey; he munches and has to admit, it's a pretty damn good treat. He knows Wayne hopes this will get him out of clinic hours. It's a doomed hope, but Greg won't kill it just yet. Let the idiot bake a few more loaves to earn treat points he'll never get. He downs a slurp of coffee as Chase knocks on his open door. "Gonna start the whiteboard session," he says, and raises an eyebrow at the plate. "Leave any for the rest of us?"

"You snooze you lose," Greg says, and stuffs the second half of a slice in his mouth. Chase rolls his eyes.

"Okay. We're on in five," he says, and heads off to C-1. Greg licks his fingers and watches his second-in-command. There's something afoot there, some unspoken comment, and he'll have to discover what it is.

The conference room is full. All fellows, as well as the new guy, are in attendance. Goldman sits in the spot assigned to newbies. He has the files stacked in front of him and pages through one, his concentration on the information. Greg hides a smile. Almost anyone else would chat up the other fellows. Jason is all about the work.

"Morning, people," Greg says, and takes his seat at the head of the table. He knows when he's not around Chase sits there, but Robert's never hesitated to offer him the chair, because they both know it's still his. "What's up?"

Of course Wayne is the first to answer him. "Ran some tests on Alisette—"

"You ran some tests on patient number one," Greg says. "First name basis is a bad idea. Continue."

Wayne glares at him. "She's just a little girl."

"Aw, that's sweet. You bringing her banana bread now too?" Greg says, and makes his mockery plain. Really, it's too easy to bait this one, and the moron doesn't get that he's being played either. Greg has his suspicions that he'll be gone sooner rather than later. Wayne enjoys the give-and-take of the team, but he's lazy enough to not like the scut work involved. That's a major flaw in this job. "Test results show . . ." Greg twirls his fingers to indicate Wayne should provide the missing information. Wayne slaps open the file and glares at him.

"Moderate anemia, spleen is slightly enlarged, signs of bone deformities," he snaps. "It's not sickle cell, but there's definitely a problem with hemoglobin."

"'Problem'?" Norton wants to know. "What kind of problem?"

"We're waiting for the results to come back. Lab's stacked up," Wayne says.

"No home-baked bribes for the tech? Tsk." Greg picks up the file, pages through it. He relishes the rush of information, the stats and notes, the way a fact will jump out at him.

"The bone deformities are still developing," Goldman says quietly. Everyone falls silent and looks at him.

"What makes you say that?" Wayne wants to know, his tone almost but not quite hostile.

"Look at the earlier MRI scans compared to the new ones. There's a small but significant difference." Goldman stands and goes to the flat-screen display, taps it into life, calls up the scans in question. He does it without hesitation, as familiar with this technology as he is with his link. After a moment two scans come up side by side. He puts in enlargements of the patient's tibia, near the ankle. "You can see it most clearly here."

He's right; placed next to each other, it's very plain something's wrong. Wayne sits back. He stares at the images, then at Goldman. "So what is it?" _Enlighten us, genius_ is the unspoken comment, but everyone's just heard the gauntlet thrown down.

"I don't know," Goldman says simply. "At this point, with half the lab results still out any attempt at diagnosis would be flawed, incomplete. But I see some markers that point in a couple of related directions."

"And they would be . . ." Greg says.

"I think it's possible the patient has thalassemia. It could be hemoglobin H disease, which would classify it as alpha, but just from the developing symptoms we've seen so far I think it's more likely it's intermediate beta thalassemia."

Greg considers the suggestion. Incomplete information aside, it's a good fit. Goldman's studied the file in-depth and thought about what he's found, used the clues, no matter how inconsequential, to arrive at his first conclusion. It's a promising start.

"The results could indicate something else entirely," Steinman says. Goldman nods.

"Yes, that's true."

"So you're not gonna get upset if your theory's incorrect?" Norton wants to know. Jason gives him a direct look. A slight smile tugs at his lips.

"No. I'm not married to it, we're just shacking up for the night." That gets an appreciative chuckle, even from Wayne.

"Who knew you were a comedian?" Greg says, and dumps the file to one side. "As soon as the results come in we'll re-examine the data. Next case."

When the session is done, just as everyone is about to get up and migrate to the kitchen, Greg says "Newbie brings coffee and doughnuts for everyone."

All gazes swing toward Goldman, to see what he'll do. Jason doesn't hesitate. He gets to his feet and looks at Wayne. "How do you like your coffee?" he asks.

"You think you're a waiter?" There's a subtle sneer in Wayne's tone. Jason nods.

"I am a waiter, yeah. When I'm not making pizzas or salads, or washing dishes."

"Present tense," Steinman says. She sounds intrigued. "You—you're working another job?"

"Until my boss can get a replacement for me." Goldman looks at Wayne in polite inquiry. "Coffee?"

He takes preferences from everyone and heads off to the kitchen, to return with a tray full of mugs and a plate with both banana bread slices and doughnuts. With care he sets the tray on the table, then hands a mug to Greg.

"You didn't ask me what I wanted," Greg says.

"Black, four sugars," Goldman says with a straight face. Greg hands him back the mug.

"Nope. I want full milk, no sugar."

Without batting an eye Jason takes the mug and returns to the kitchen. He's back in less than two minutes. He sets the mug in front of Greg.

"Full milk, no sugar," he says. Greg picks it up, takes a taste, makes a face.

"I've changed my mind. Black, four sugars."

Without comment Goldman takes it back, to return with yet another mug. He places it in front of Greg and waits.

"The other coffees are cold," Greg says. "Replace those as well."

Five minutes later everyone has a fresh steaming mug in front of them, along with spoons, napkins and plates for bread or doughnuts. There's even a little dish of butter pats and some knives to spread them with. Goldman doesn't sit down; he waits until everyone's tasted their coffee.

"Anything else?" he asks, without a single note of sarcasm or mockery. Greg gives him a point for taking a mild hazing in stride. It'll be of interest to see how he does later on, when it's gone on for a while.

"Yes. You have clinic hours starting . . ." Greg checks his watch. He's old-fashioned enough to still wear one. "Now till nine."

"I have work at Lou's tonight," Goldman says.

"Not my problem. Deal with it." Greg picks up a file. "Get going, they're expecting you. There's probably a line of kids out the door to get vaccines and exams for school." He opens the file and pretends to read it. Goldman sighs softly, turns away and goes to Norton, who stands in the hallway outside the conference room and polishes off a slice of banana bread. An interesting choice; Jason already knows Wayne is not a fan, but Greg thought he'd go for Steinman first. Women are usually a softer touch. Greg watches the two young men as they talk. He can almost hear the conversation: _trade you four hours tonight for four this weekend_. There's a bit of haggling, but eventually Norton nods. He and Goldman part ways. It's entirely likely Jason won't get much sleep or down time for a while, but this is a traditional test for all young doctors, and Greg wants to see how his protégé handles it. It'll eventually turn out well, but there's bound to be at least one breakdown along the way, and Greg wants to know how it'll happen, and why. Satisfied, he goes back to his file, sips his excellent coffee, and snags another doughnut.

"How long do you plan to torture him?" Chase asks from the doorway. Greg contemplates his treat. So this is the bee under Chase's pretty little floral bonnet.

"As long as it takes," he says. "You remember." He bites into the doughnut and savors maple-pecan coconut crunch.

"'The monkeys thought 'twas all in fun,'" Chase says, with a glint of mordant humor. "It'll be interesting to see who lasts longer, him or you." He moves out of the doorway toward the exam rooms and is soon gone from sight.

_'Chains of Love,' Erasure_


	22. Chapter 22

_June 10th_

"Can't do it tonight, man. Sorry." Norton gave Jason a look tinged with sympathy. "Got a date set up. If I cancel on her that's it. Try Wayne, he's usually got weekends free."

After Norton left Jason went outside to the picnic table, link in hand. It was a hot afternoon but not overly so in the shade at least, and a soft wind rustled the leaves overhead. He sat at the battered old table and remembered many hours of studies spent here in high school. He'd always preferred to be outside in good weather; it seemed silly to stay indoors when the sun shone and the air was soft and warm.

Slowly he sat down and reviewed his mental checklist. The next name on it was Wayne's. The fellow was a very long shot, he knew that all too well; the other man hadn't bothered to hide his antagonism, and would probably gloat over Jason's predicament and attempt to extort a much larger cost than this favor warranted. Still, it was worth a try. Steinman should be next on the list, but at this point she wasn't even in the running, mainly because she was Norton's date—a very bad idea on her part, and his too. While House and Chase hadn't banned employee dating, neither one thought much of the idea. Chase in particular had his reasons for a strong dislike of the practice; he'd told Jason about his brief marriage to one of House's fellows, a mistake on both sides. Anyway, examples aside, Jason thought dating a colleague was a sure sign of a lack of critical thought and self-discipline. Workplace romances tended to be like hothouse flowers—one exposure to even mildly adverse conditions, and they'd die. A broken relationship inevitably made everyone else as miserable as the two exes.

With a sigh he moved down the names. Rob's stepson Josh was at the top of the short list of non-medical contacts. He was out of college for the summer and had apprenticed under Jason the year before, with weekends here and there when he was home. He knew the basics of the kitchen procedure, but to dump him head-first into a busy Friday night on his own would be unfair, and a burden on David. Josh's sister Amy had helped out too, but mainly with waiting tables and the register; she didn't even know how to put together a pizza or salad prep, much less cope with a slammed order line.

That left Roz House. Jason propped his head on his fist and stared at the empty lot across the street. She was the logical choice; she knew the kitchen and its routines like the back of her hand, she had the time, and she'd told him some time ago she'd help out. She would also be the best candidate to get Josh up to speed on kitchen procedures. And she was a good resource for other kids who were looking for a summer job, or high school graduates trying to find something more permanent in the community. The main impediment was her husband, who would use Roz's participation as a tool to extract more work hours. Jason knew he'd end up with double clinic duty at the very least, not to mention the compilation of lab results and mundane stuff like supply inventories and to re-stock the kitchen, or even detail work on Barbarella. He didn't mind any of those chores, but he'd already put in over seventy hours this week and that didn't count his job at Lou's.

Of course as a last resort, he could ask his parents. They knew the job too, nearly as well as Roz. But Mom had put off a hip replacement surgery to finance his medical degree, and as a consequence she'd lost some mobility. He'd seen her use a walking stick now and then when she gardened, and in the mornings it was plain her pain numbers were elevated. She never complained, but he couldn't subject her to the rigors of the kitchen, especially on a busy night. Dad was a possibility but he was older too, and tired more easily than he would admit.

_Mom has a bad hip because of me_, he thought. That first encounter so many years ago, when he'd stolen groceries from her truck . . . For a brief moment he remembered the desperation of deep hunger, the fear of being discovered, and his terror when she'd nearly gotten run over after she'd pushed him to safety. He owed her and Dad more than he could ever repay; he wouldn't add to her physical discomfort or Dad's, even if it meant he got a lot less sleep.

With an effort Jason pulled his thoughts away from old memories, and concentrated on the problem at hand. He had two choices. One was a potential but highly unlikely quick fix; the other would solve the problem but cost him more than he wanted to pay. "Dammit," he muttered, and made the call to Wayne. It was answered on the first ring.

"Desperation won out, did it?" The gloating tone in Wayne's words made Jason grit his teeth.

"Hey Bill," he said, determined to be polite, for his own self-respect if nothing else. "I'm looking to trade some hours on Friday for weekend clinic duty. I know you're at the top of the list on Sunday."

"Let's see . . . giving up a pleasant evening relaxing at home tonight and a chance to sleep in late on Sunday while accruing points with House for coming in on the weekend . . . not good enough. You'll have to sweeten the deal."

"What do you want?" Jason said. He closed his eyes against what he knew was ahead; Wayne would ask him for something he wasn't willing to give, and that would be that.

"Take my Friday night hours for the next six months." Wayne's words held a cold amusement. "You don't agree, forget it. No bargaining."

"Not possible," Jason said quietly. "But thanks anyway." He ended the call on Wayne's laugh, and in quiet resignation turned to Roz.

"Of course I'll help you," she said, and the genuine affection in her dark, cool voice went a long way to ease the humiliation of the previous exchange. "I can work whenever you need me, I've got my lesson plans ready to go for fall and no students to tutor at the moment. It'll be fun to spend some time at Poppi's place."

"Thanks," Jason said, both relieved and resigned to what would come next. "I really appreciate this, Roz."

"So do I," House said, and chuckled.

"Greg, this is none of your business!" Roz sounded ferocious, but Jason heard the laugh in her voice. "It's between me and Jason!"

"Mwahahahaaaaa," House said, and he was gone.

"_Buffone_," Roz said, and Jason knew she shook her head. "You let me deal with him, Jay. I'll make sure he doesn't come down on you for this."

"Thanks," Jason said, though that was a lost cause if ever he heard one. "I'll send you my schedule and we can work things out."

"Why don't I meet you at the clinic and we'll get everything set up. You can treat me to coffee and a leftover doughnut," Roz said on a chuckle.

She was there within the hour, and accepted fresh coffee and a cookie from the vending machine as she and Jason sat in the break room together. He watched her as she read through his schedule. She'd been his first real crush; though he'd never told anyone, she was still his ideal woman. All of his dates throughout school and residency had been measured against her standard and found lacking.

"Okay, I can cover Friday evenings for the next month or so. I'll call Josh and see if he's willing to come in with me so he can get more experience." She sipped her coffee. "I've looked around for someone to take on the job full-time, but most people leave the area after they graduate. I can put the word out at school. Maybe someone on the tech side would be interested. I think they have a couple of seniors in the food industry section this semester."

"Thanks," Jason said quietly, not quite sure what to say to express his gratitude.

"You're welcome. You're a good man, Jason. Most people would have just left David stranded. I know you're half-killing yourself to make sure he's got a working kitchen." Roz put her hand over his for a moment. "Poppi was proud of you, and he still would be."

High praise indeed, he knew. Jason lowered his gaze. "I miss him," he said quietly, and felt the sadness well up as it did every time he thought of Lou.

"Me too." Her strong, slender fingers gave his a gentle squeeze. "Now let's get this worked out."

"I work here at the clinic till nine, then I'm on call for the practice until midnight," Jason said.

"You should go over to the practice then, when you're done with your hours," Roz said. "Come in to the kitchen to help clean up. You know that's the worst part of Friday, not having enough people to get everything finished and having to stay till three." She finished her coffee and gave him a direct look. "You'll be pretty wiped out by then. Are you sure you're up for this?"

Jason couldn't help but laugh. "Residency's a lot worse." He stretched and looked up as Shufelter, the clinic director, stuck her head in the door.

"Planning secret strategies?" she wanted to know.

"We're gonna invade Canada," Roz said, as serene as a calm lake. Shufelter grinned and said nothing more, just withdrew and continued down the hall.

Clinic on a Friday night in a small town was as predictable and boring as anyone might expect. There was a brief moment of mild excitement when a group of Little League players came in with one of their comrades who bled all over the place, but it was just a small scalp wound caused by a mitt fight between teams. Jason cleared everyone out, cleaned up the mess, closed the wound with butterfly sutures and offered the patient a lollipop, which of course created a clamor for candy from everyone else. By the time the group left he had two bays in need of repair from the depredations of small hands. Since the waiting room was empty, he decided to do inventory on both bays and get them up to speed.

He was about to open a new case of gloves when Wayne said "That's not going to get you any brownie points."

Jason turned, the case in his hands. Wayne stood at the entrance to the bay. It was clear he was not well; his face was pale and drawn, and he held his head at a slight angle. Jason studied him.

"Sit down," he said, and set the case aside.

He made the examination brief but thorough. When it was done he perched on a rolling stool and faced Wayne. "Incipient migraine."

"Yeah. Light flashes started an hour ago." Wayne closed his eyes. "Haven't had one in a while, and I'm out of meds. My doctor's office is closed for the weekend."

"Okay. What are you taking?"

"Triptans work best, at least for now. I'm on oral zolmitriptan, five milligrams every four to six hours."

Jason nodded. "I think we have some in stock at the pharmacy, let me check." He got to his feet. "Be right back." Without further conversation he left the bay, and paused only to turn the lights down.

He returned fifteen minutes later with half a dozen sample packs of Zomig in the correct dosage, a disposable emesis basin, two pillows and a thermal blanket piled atop one of the portable beds. Wayne didn't hesitate; he kicked off his sandals and climbed on while Jason opened a sample pack and got a pitcher of water and a cup from the nurses station. It didn't take long to get the patient settled and relatively comfortable. Neither man spoke until Jason was about to leave.

"This doesn't change anything," Wayne said. He sounded a bit drowsy, but his antagonism was still evident. Jason felt a surge of annoyance. Did the other man really think he was that naïve?

"Yeah, I know." He turned off the lights and pulled the curtain shut. "Call button's under the pillow."

He elected to stay at the clinic during his on-call time in case Wayne needed him; the practice was only a few minutes away, and their patients were both stable for now. He took a nap in the lounge, grateful for the comfort of a shabby, broken-in recliner and a quiet room. It seemed like he'd just closed his eyes when someone touched his shoulder.

"I'm outta here," Wayne said. He still looked pale, but not as tense as when he'd come in. "Told the charge nurse I'm leaving."

"Okay," Jason said. "You're AMA, but that's your choice." He hesitated on his next question. Well, why not? The man hated him anyway, asking something personal wouldn't make a difference. "Is your doctor local, or someone back home?"

Wayne didn't answer right away. "He's in California," he said at last.

"You might want to find someone in the area," Jason said, and kept his tone neutral. "There's a good clinic in the next county. Doctor Kelly knows us, she's consulted with the practice a couple of times. Her office usually has a three month waiting period for appointments, but if you tell them you're working for House they'll get you in earlier. In the short term you can come here for samples, I'll clear it with Shufelter."

Wayne stared at him. "You are too fucking good to be true," he said. It was not a compliment.

"I'm just doing my job," Jason snapped, fed up with the endless baiting. "If I let the fact that you're a complete tool prevent me from helping you, I might as well work in a kitchen for the rest of my life. It shouldn't be necessary to tell you to get a local doctor, you've been here for a year. I covered your ass once, but after this you're on your own. I strongly suggest you call Kelly's office on Monday and get shit taken care of. Now get the hell out of my emergency bay. I've got an hour on call before I have to be at my other job, and I plan to sleep for forty-five minutes of that hour."

After a few moments Wayne turned and left. Jason glanced at his link, scrubbed a hand over his face, sighed and considered his last statement. It was pure bullshit; he didn't really have time to extend his nap, and anyway he'd gotten two hours. It would have to be enough for now. With reluctance he pried his tired body from the comfort of the recliner. Better to check on the patients at the practice, make sure everything was okay before he headed to the restaurant. He could sleep in Sunday morning, he wasn't on call again until the afternoon.

_June 11th_

He reached Lou's just after midnight. A small party of customers exited the front door as he drove by; David was right behind them to send them off with a smile and a wave before he turned the faded sign in the window from _come in we're OPEN_ to _sorry we're CLOSED. _Jason wasn't sorry in the least. He drove around to the back door and parked Minnie next to Roz's truck, got out, stretched a bit, and went in.

Of course everyone had already started the cleanup routine when he came through the door. Roz had the overloaded dish cart pulled up to the Hobie, along with the compost can; Julie was on her way into the dining area with fresh cleaning solution, and David had Josh run the sweeper at the front while he cleared the register. Jason hung up his jacket and grabbed an apron.

"Hey, _ragazzo_," Roz said. She looked tired but happy. "If you want to start on the _bain-marie_ I'll take care of the dishes."

Jason did as she asked. "How was Josh tonight?" He examined some lettuce and dumped it in the big bowl, its ultimate destination Mom's compost pile—brown edges told their own tale. They'd need to add two dozen heads to the supply list.

"He did really well. I think we can count on him for the next month or so, give or take a night. I found a senior who's interested in apprenticing too, so we'll get her started right away. David's got the forms and he'll get them filled out and returned by Monday. Just a little longer and then you'll be down to two jobs instead of three." She turned to empty vegetable scraps in the can.

"Wow, imagine that," Jason said dryly, and Roz laughed as Julie came in.

"I'm glad you're amused, because I'm not. The people in this town are total pigs," she said, a familiar pronouncement. Jason rolled his eyes.

"Young families with kids tend to be a little messy," he pointed out.

"_My_ kids won't act that way." Julie poured the cleaning solution into the greywater tank and slapped the lid shut. "Screaming and throwing shit around. Good parents come prepared with things to keep everyone occupied until the food shows up." She grabbed the table spray with a roll of paper towels and flounced off. Jason dared a glance at Roz, who raised her brows but said nothing. Jason agreed with her silent assessment and continued to clean the _bain-marie_.

It was closer to two than one by the time they were done, but David gathered them together before they left. "You're all doing a fantastic job," he said quietly. "I know this is tough on everyone, but Roz is helping me get some full-time help in and that will make things easier for us all. I really appreciate everything you're doing. Now go home and get some sleep, and we'll do it all again later today."

On mutual groans and laughter they dispersed into the warm night. Jason drove home and yawned the whole way, with Minnie on autopilot just in case Matt was on the lookout for an easy ticket. He didn't begrudge the local cop his job, but there were usually better pickings at the village pub. He wasn't about to contribute to the town council's coffers any more than he already did with his taxes.

The house was quiet when he parked the old truck, but he saw a light on in the front window and smiled a little. It didn't take long to dump his gear and make a quick sandwich. He stacked his plate with oatmeal-raisin cookies and went into the living room.

"Hey, how was work?" Mom looked up over her reading glasses and smiled at him as he sat down opposite her. Jason bit into the sandwich and gave the mouthful a few token chews before he swallowed.

"Never thought I'd say this, but it's worse than residency." He ate half a cookie as Mom chuckled.

"Tell me about your day."

He gave her an edited version while he devoured the rest of the sandwich and the cookies. When he was done she sat back, the humor faded from her expression. Jason set the empty plate on the coffee table.

"What is it?" he said.

"Wayne," Mom said after a moment. "I get why you're mad at him. But you're missing something. Look at things from his point of view."

Jason belched and rubbed his belly. "Do I have to?"

"_Jason_." She sent him a stern look, but a slight smile came with it. "Compassion is easy with people you like, but as you already know, you'll encounter patients who will make you angry or annoyed, or disgusted. It's not so easy then to look at their situations and be kind. I'm not sayin' you have to love everyone you meet, but if you want to help people find true healing, you have to be willing to see things from their perspective. Now put yourself in Wayne's place."

That was about the last thing he wanted to do, but he forced himself to do as his mother asked. "It was probably hard for him to come to the clinic, since he knew I was the doctor on duty," he said slowly. "Especially after he jerked me around on trading hours earlier that day."

"I'm sure he felt he had no choice, but he could have stayed home and toughed it out with some ibuprofen and a dark room, as unpleasant as that would have been," Mom said. "He knows you're a good doctor. I think that's a big part of his problem with you. Maybe he doesn't think he measures up somehow."

That was a new thought. Jason yawned and considered it. "Huh. Maybe."

"Okay, that's enough for tonight. You're asleep sitting up. Go to bed." Mom set aside her book and got to her feet. "We'll do waffles later when you get up, your dad said he had a taste for them." She came forward as Jason stood, and gave him a hug. "Sleep well, love."

When he entered his room he found the nightstand lamp on and the bedclothes turned down. With a quiet sigh he shucked off his clothes and climbed into bed. He was asleep before his head hit the pillow.

He woke to early morning light as it filtered in through his window, while his link buzzed. He squinted at it and answered, groggy with exhaustion. "Yeah."

"Time to rise, Little Miss Sunshine," House said in undisguised glee. "You have a car to detail."

Jason groaned and rolled onto his back. "_Now?_"

"No time like the present. See you in half an hour."

"Like hell. Two hours."

"You force me to weep bitter tears at your utter lack of initiative. One hour and don't be late."

Jason paused at the sound of rain against glass. He looked out the window and frowned. "House, it's raining. No way am I gonna wash that damn hunk of metal today!"

"You watch your phraseology around Barbarella. She's the other woman in my marriage and I won't have anyone talking trash about her. At any rate she's in the shed, you can clean the interior. Be here or be unemployed." And he was gone. Jason sighed and sat up slowly. Five hours . . . well, it was better than nothing. He'd worked double shifts for weeks at a time on far less. Copious amounts of caffeine were called for now however, he knew that all too well.

He'd just emerged from the shower when his link went off. Jason grabbed it from the counter. "_Jesus_, House, what the_ fuck_?!"

"Go back to bed, crankypants," Roz said on a chuckle. "I took care of things."

Jason hesitated. "Do I want to know how?"

"No, you don't. Sleep in and I'll see you later tonight, _ragazzo_."

So Roz had made good at least once on her promise . . . Jason yawned and smiled a little at the probable method Roz had used, pulled on his boxers and shambled toward the kitchen, intent on some coffee and a handful of cookies before he slid back into bed and luxuriated in a few more hours of sleep. Not a bad start to the day . . . not bad at all.


	23. Chapter 23

_June 12th_

It's a peaceful Sunday morning. Greg lies in bed and listens to his wife putter in the kitchen; he can smell bacon and fresh coffee, and hear the stream on NPR with the latest news and stories. It's drizzly and cool outside, a good day to enjoy the comforts of home . . . but there's a silent war waged, and he's on the losing side. It is _completely_ unfair that Roz has interfered with what he considers to be the correct training of a young doctor. For all her rational mind, she has a big gooey soft spot in her heart for Jason that defies all reason. She thinks Jason is already hard done by, because he works two jobs and clinic hours on top of it all. It's a rigorous schedule, but the fact that at least one third of it is Goldman's choice doesn't matter to her.

"He stuck with Lou's for the right reasons," she'd said when they discussed it on Saturday. 'Discussed' puts it in politically correct terms; she'd told him that unless he backed off on Jason's work load, he would get no lovin', hot or otherwise, period. She'd demonstrated the truth of her statement when she slept on the couch last night, and left him alone in what had suddenly become a very large and empty bed. Even the cat abandoned him. And now here he is, ignored by both wife and feline—

"Breakfast is ready," Roz says from the doorway with vile cheerfulness. Greg glares at her as best he can from a supine position.

"So the prisoner gets bread and water, how humane," he snaps. Roz leans against the doorframe. She's still in her bathrobe, a loose tank top—one of his, of course, she still steals his shirts—and sleep shorts peek out from beneath the gleaming silk. Her hair is mussed up in the most charming way, and she smiles just a little, her lean, dark features suffused with amusement. She is _laughing_ at him, damn her.

"You're gonna lie there all day and sulk because I won't let you extort more work out of Jason. That's sad. Really pathetic." She shakes her head at him and turns away, but not before he sees her smile widen.

"I'll die of neglect and it'll be your fault!" he yells after her. "You'll have to clean up my rotting corpse, you know!"

"Get out of bed and eat your breakfast!" is the heartless reply.

Eventually his empty belly rumbles to remind him he really is hungry, so he swings his legs over the side and sits for a while as his body adjusts to the new position. It takes a little longer nowadays than it used to, and he tends to feel more aches and stiffness in his joints, but at least he's spared the stabbing agony of a ruined quadriceps. He runs his fingertips slowly over the smooth skin of his right thigh, and closes his eyes on remembered pain. Now all he has to deal with is the tremor in his hands, something he doesn't really want to think about right now. But he knows he has to do something about it soon, because it won't get any better. Nor is it worse, thank whatever gods there be for small favors. Still, he's fairly sure of his self-diagnosis, but in this case he needs outside confirmation of the tests he's already run on himself. Time to make another appointment with Kelly and confirm his suspicions. She's a decent internist, and discreet as well.

He mutters under his breath at the indignities of old age as he pulls on his robe and heads to the bathroom to pee. When he washes his hands, he sees the water splash in the sink from the shakes, and knows his decision is the right one.

When he reaches the kitchen there are scrambled eggs to go with the bacon. Roz glances at him when he stumps in. "Good morning," she says, still far too cheerful for his taste.

"For some of us maybe." He takes a seat at the table. "You really think Goldman's worth alienating your compassionate, all-wise and loving husband."

"Actually that's your decision to make. I already made mine. You just have to agree with me. Pretty simple." She stirs the eggs and turns off the heat. "There's some coffeecake in the oven keeping warm."

And that's that. She won't budge, he knows it. But he doesn't want to give in on this. His process for his fellows is his process and no one else's. If she doesn't like how he treats Goldman, it shouldn't make a difference in his personal life. Therefore, a little tender persuasion is in order.

So he comes up to the stove with plate in hand as she scoops the eggs into a bowl. He stands right behind her, close enough to feel the warmth of her body through the lustrous softness of her robe, and he leans in to brush a tender, slow kiss over the back of her slender nape. She leans into it with a quiet sigh as she sets the bowl on the counter, eyes closed.

"_La tua pelle è come seta_," he whispers, and she smiles. Her hand comes up, caresses his cheek, brings his face down to hers as she turns. The kiss is sweet, lingering; when it ends she touches her lips to his.

"_La prima colazione è sempre freddo_," she says softly, and turns away to pick up her plate. Greg watches her, still a-tingle from her kiss, prey to a variety of emotions. After a few moments he takes his plate in hand.

They eat in the living room side by side on the couch and watch a split live stream from New York and London. She checks reviews for the latest Broadway plays; he looks at Test match scores. Neither of them says a word. The cat is curled up between them as he takes advantage of human warmth on either side. It's a peaceful scene, but appearances can be deceiving. Greg eats the excellent food while he tries to decide on a plan of action. He's halfway into some improbable scheme where he takes the Heebster over to the Goldmans and leaves a ransom note on the doorstep when his wife says "I can hear the wheels in your head spinning all the way over here."

"I don't know what you mean," Greg says with wounded dignity. "Just eating breakfast, that's all."

"You know, if you'd just do as I ask, we could plan on some afternoon delight." Roz sighs and munches a strip of bacon.

"It's traditional to put a young doctor through his paces," Greg says, exasperated.

"This is not that. This is you taking advantage of someone trying to do the right thing, and making me a party to your machinations." She looks at him; her eyes are very green. "Wrong and wrong."

"So you don't want to look bad. And by the way, working yourself to death at Lou's is the most idiotic mistake you could make."

Roz tilts her head to one side. She regards him with a less-than-flattering look. "What do you know, wrong and wrong again," she says. "You're not getting your way on this."

Greg glares at her. For some reason he remembers a confrontation in Cuddy's office years ago, and gives in to a moment of emotional impulse. "_Attica! Attica!_"

Roz blinks. "What?"

"Nothing. All right then, standoff it is. We'll see who can live without nooky the longest." It's pure bravado on his part, he knows it's fairly certain he'll be the first to cave . . . but until he does, he's got a right hand that still functions, and he'll use it. Hell, the tremors might even make it more fun, if he doesn't twist his frank off his beans in the process.

Roz studies him. "Okay," she says simply, and turns back to her play reviews. Greg gives a silent groan. This is going to be a long stalemate, he just knows it.

Later that afternoon, while wifey wastes her time at Lou's, he puts in a call to his shrink. Of course Sarah is Roz's close friend, but there's a remote possibility he might be able to win her over to his side and convince his woman she's dead wrong. Something he won't admit to himself, not even in private, is the worry that in two weeks he and Sarah haven't even talked in passing. Not only that, he hasn't gone over for a daily second breakfast as he's done for years now. He feels the lack of their friendship more keenly than he'd ever thought was possible. However, in this instance he makes a business call, nothing more.

"Greg," Sarah says when she answers. She sounds hesitant but willing to talk. "How—how are you?"

This attempt at chit-chat annoys him, a reaction he knows is stupid; he called her, after all. "Peachy. I know junior's told you all about what's going on," he snaps. "Small talk is pointless." Oh, _great_. Now he's just screwed his chances.

There's a brief silence. "Why don't you tell me how you see this and we'll go from there," Sarah says finally. She sounds every inch the professional psychoanalyst. Greg sighs.

"You of all people should comprehend that hazing is part of the ritual for a young doctor. It's my job to push your boy as hard as possible, and even harder when I can."

To his surprise she laughs. "So that's your excuse."

"It's not an excuse!"

"Oh, yes it is. I know you, Gregory House. Yes I do," she says when he tries to interrupt. "You are many things that are good, but you're also possessed of a flaw or two just like the rest of us mortals, and one of the biggest is that now and then you can be a stone cheapskate, son."

"No I'm not," he says, and winces at the fatal weakness of his riposte.

"Huh, even you can't deny it." Sarah snorts in amusement. "Admit it. You're doing this just to get double the work out of my boy. You couldn't care less about some bullshit hallowed tradition. In fact, I bet you bucked that one every chance you got back in the day."

"We're not talking about me—"

"Yes we are. This is all about you and your everlasting need to pull a fast one." Sarah chuckles. "I bet Roz put her foot down and you want to win out over her. You must be desperate if you're callin' me for some help." She's amused, but he hears a wistful note in those last words and it stings him in a raw spot—his own fears about their friendship, the fears he hasn't wanted to face yet.

"I was hoping to find someone with some reason left in them," he growls. "All this emotional crap—"

"I'm Jason's mother, of course I don't want to see him worked to death just to please your miserly heart! Come on, Greg."

"You're in on this with my wife," he accuses.

"Actually I'm not, but if she told you to leave Jason alone, then I stand with her. My boy's trying to do the right thing. You're attempting to use his integrity for your own purposes, and for once someone's saying no. Get over it." With that she's gone. Greg stares down at his link. Well . . . at least she's not boiling mad, something he would have expected from a formerly carroty redhead. Why he should care either way is beyond him, but he does, dammit.

"Attica," he says on a sigh, and goes off to his study to play his piano and have a smoke, and wallow in self-pity.

When he emerges, it's late afternoon and the house is quiet. There's a note on the kitchen counter:

_see you after work _

_supper ready in fridge_

_love you-R_

He peers at the offering in the refrigerator. Meat loaf slices with gravy, mashed potatoes, grilled caramelized onions . . . his mouth waters, but he has a taste for something Italian tonight, and he doesn't just mean his wife. He closes the door, goes back to the bedroom and changes his sweats and shabby tee for clean clothes, puts on his trainers, and heads off, to pause only once as he grabs his keys.

As luck (and deliberate timing) would have it, Lou's is comfortably busy when he walks in the front door. And who should be on register duty but his lovely wife. She looks up when he comes in, and her eyes narrow. Then she takes a menu in hand and gives him a wide smile.

"Welcome to Lou's," she says, and hands him the menu. Greg shoves it back at her.

"Gimme the booth by the kitchen door," he says. Roz studies him for a moment.

"Okay," she says mildly, and leads him to the small two-top where the staff usually take their breaks. Once he sits she says "What'll you have?"

"Burger, naked. Onion rings extra dark. And a beer," he adds, as he always does. Roz nods.

"The usual. Got it."

"Wait—you're not gonna tell me you don't have beer?"

She just smiles at him and disappears behind the swing door, to return with a tall glass and a straw. Greg eyes it with disgust. "Root beer," he says. "Ha ha, very funny."

"Back in a few," Roz says with way too much cheerfulness. Greg glares at her, then hunches his shoulders and gives the dining area a thorough once-over. It's the usual crowd—mostly younger families with kids, a couple of older teenagers, a retired farm couple or two. There is one note of interest, however. The group closest to him consists of a set of parents he's never seen before. Seated across from them on a booster chair is a little girl, about three years old. Mom and Dad whisper over the menu while their daughter chooses a marker and begins to color the table instead of the paper mat.

"No honey," Mom says in a faux-sweet tone. The slight edge in her words tells its own story. "Just color the mat, okay?"

"Nup!" the little girl says, and continues to work on the table. Greg can't help but grin at this display of defiance. She's a kid after his own heart. He makes a face at her. She catches a glimpse of him and pauses, eyes wide. Then she giggles, and shows him the marker. Greg gives an exaggerated nod and mimes writing on the table. The little girl giggles again and obeys his silent instruction with enthusiasm, just as her mother makes a grab for the marker.

"_No!_ Honey—"

At that point Roz comes up with what looks like an order of appetizers just as David walks by. "Hey, you have an artist!" David says with real enthusiasm, and stops next to the toddler as Roz hands out plates and bowls full of good stuff. Greg groans silently. "It's okay, the tabletops are made for markers, we only use the non-toxic water-based kind. Everything washes right off. She can color all she likes."

"Not only that, main course is coming up shortly," Roz says. She shoots Greg a quick glance; her eyes are moss green. That means she knows exactly what he's been up to and will make sure he can't have any more fun at the parents expense. "Okay, who needs ketchup?"

Soon enough his little would-be partner in crime munches mozzarella sticks and doesn't pay the slightest bit of attention to him. But as Greg watches her, he notices something intriguing: she's got better-than-average fine motor skills. A lot better. Most three year olds would aim a mozzarella stick in the general direction of the bowl, with a slight chance to get the stick into the marinara. This little one is different. She takes the stick in hand and dips it slowly and with care, her attention focused solely on the task. The result is a nice amount of sauce on tasty fried cheese, which she transfers to her mouth with the same thorough attention. It isn't just a one-off either—she does it each time. It's not a sign of mental impairment, that is quite clear; she knows exactly what's required and how to do it. Greg sips his root beer and jumps when a basket of onion rings is placed in front of him.

"I made sure Josh burned them just for you," Roz says. She glances at him, then at the toddler. All the humor fades from her expression. For a moment she goes still. "What is it?"

He knows what that means, it's what everybody fears when he does this, but she's the only one he won't tease, because of their shared history. "Nothing bad," he says. Roz doesn't answer right away. Then she nods.

"Okay. Tell me later."

"Yeah. Who are they?"

"I don't know." At his surprised glance Roz shrugs. "I haven't seen them before. Maybe they just moved in, or they're vacationers on their way through here to someplace else."

"Find out," he orders. Roz looks him up and down.

"Yes sir," she says with a raised brow, and goes back to the table, where everyone is busy with their food. He can almost see the moment when she clicks on the extra charm. Within a very short time the mom and dad chat with her, their tired faces relaxed into enjoyment. Roz keeps it short, she does have other customers, but as she passes Greg's booth she gives him a slight nod. She'll have information for him later.

When his burger arrives he eats it and watches the toddler. She's tired now, but instead of a fuss, she returns to her decoration of the tabletop while her parents talk in low voices. She is as deliberate and careful with her choice of markers as she was when she ate the mozzarella sticks; she knows what she wants and how to get it. He can see just enough of the tabletop to note that she puts together color combinations that are unusual, but pleasing too. This child is something special, and her talent is clearly wasted on the two bozos who are her parents; they ignore what goes on right beneath their noses, as most idiot normal people do. Well, if he has a chance he'll see what he can do to rescue this kid from a lifetime of hellish averageness. In the meantime he has a mission, and he's not about to be distracted from it.

After he finishes his burger he abandons the booth, grabs his drink, and goes to the kitchen. The moment he passes through the swing door, the atmosphere changes—it's hot as hell back here, even with a couple of box and oscillating fans moving the air, and the back door propped open with the screen door in place to allow some cross-currents. With the oven on full-blast however, there's little hope of relief. And yet it's not pure misery—music plays on the stream, classic rock with some blues mixed in, and the general feeling is good—pushed and busy, but good.

Jason is hard at work on pizza prep. He's got a line of order slips, but he doesn't flail around and panic. Greg watches as he puts cheese on a pie, turns to open the oven door, slips a paddle under the pizza, and transfers it to the rack, all in one smooth, practiced move. Gunney's been here a while; under the white apron his tee shirt is soaked with sweat in spots, and his thick hair tries to escape from under the ball cap he wears with the brim turned around. But while he looks tired, he also enjoys this, it's quite apparent. He glances once at Greg, then back to the task at hand. There's no resentment, no reproach—just work that needs to be done.

Things are not quite so settled with Chase's kid, who runs the deep fryer. He's kept the pace, but it's clear he hasn't been in the kitchen much and as a consequence he's a bit disorganized and uncertain of procedure. Still, when he turns out a basket of fries they're exactly right, and he checks the slips before he loads up the fryer once more. Roz bustles in past Greg, dumps dirty dishes and glasses into the cart by the sink, makes up a salad from the _bain marie_ with a speed borne of long practice, grabs a clean tray and gathers the next order as Jason removes finished pizzas from the oven and slides them onto the cooling pad. He slices them with an expert hand as Roz calls out the order she picks up.

"Large pie, double order of fries, one small salad no tomatoes, ranch on the side."

Within thirty seconds she walks out with the order and Jason checks the pie in the oven. It's very plain now this is his kitchen, run his way—orderly, quick and precise, but little or no tension because he knows what he's doing. It matches the work he's put in at the practice, and the clinic too; Greg's checked the log books and found cases noted well, and plenty of hours worked as well. Jason's kept his word.

Greg watches the ebb and flow of the kitchen for a few more minutes. Then he leaves, pays for his order without a tip, and walks across the square to the bar, where he nurses a couple of excellent draft beers and watches Jay lay money on racks and proceed to fleece a couple of locals apparently possessed of eternal optimism and endless amounts of gullibility.

It's late by the time he gets home. Hellboy greets him with enthusiasm, in hope as always for a treat. "Wifey will take care of you," he tells the little cat, and moves into the living room, to put on the tv and watch what's left of tonight's game. He settles in . . .

Roz's hand on his shoulder wakes him up. "Go to bed," she says, and leans in to kiss him. It's a lovely, lingering kiss. When it ends he looks at her.

"Giving up?" he wants to know. She rolls her eyes and straightens.

"_Che tirchio_," she says, "stiffing me on the tip."

"No point," he says, "you get enough of my money as it is."

"That's what they all say," she replies without hesitation.

"So you do have boyfriends on the side. I knew something was going on—" He flinches when she gives him a light smack. "Abusive too. I should report you."

"You do that. Then we can talk about how you work some of your employees to death and expect even more." Roz folds her arms. "Sounds like fun to me."

"Goldman's doing fine! I don't know why you're so worried, he's holding his own—"

"He's juggling everything you're throwing at him because he doesn't know how to do anything else. He's dead on his feet before he comes in, by the time he leaves he can barely find the truck." Now she's truly annoyed, he can see it in the way her brows lower, the hard edge in her words. "You've established that he's a hard worker and he can handle whatever you dish out. Now you just want to break him so you can find his weak point. He deserves better than that from you. Cut him some slack, or you'll be the one sleeping on the couch tonight."

So, how far does he want to push this? He can give in, coax his wife back into a good mood and get some decent sex, or he can stick to his principles and spend another night alone. While the prospect of being the one to cave is bothersome because he knows he's right, the knowledge that he'll be on the couch a lot longer than one night tells him the course he has to take. Still, he gives it one last try.

"So you're making me wrong for my methods. I don't bitch you out when you push your students to study for hours or administer enough mock tests to make their tiny little brains melt down."

"That's true, you don't," Roz says. "If you did I'd tell you to get lost."

Greg stares at her. "But—" he splutters, outraged, "but you—you just said—you told me—" He has no words in the face of this massive pile of illogic, so completely opposite Roz's usually rational, reasonable mindset. And here he is, right back where he started: his wife's ridiculous soft spot for Jason that defies all attempts at reasonable discourse and behavior. He might as well fight with a feather pillow.

"Stop testing Jason's limits just because he's a good guy who honors his promises," she says. "It's that simple. I'll be in the bedroom if you decide I'm right." With that she marches off, her back very straight, patrician features full of hauteur. He is forcibly reminded yet again that her ancestors once conquered the known world, and spawned people like the Medicis and the Borgias. Machiavelli too, for that matter.

Five minutes later he enters the bedroom, to find she waits for him, as naked as the day she was born, perched in provocative fashion atop the bedclothes. "What took you so long?" she says as he sits next to her.

"I had to climb over that shitpile of pointless emotion you dumped in front of me." He peers at her. "Been taking laxatives, no doubt."

Roz looks down her nose at him. "Gonna keep trying to piss me off, or get down to business?" She lies back and uncrosses her legs. "Besides, after we make love I have the information you wanted about the little girl and her family. But you won't get it unless you give in."

Well, there it is. Logic dictates he obey and lose with as much grace as he can muster. Besides, he'll find a way to get some of his back—probably within the next hour, if he has anything to say about proceedings. With a mental shrug he gives in to that part of him delighted by his choice, and does as his wife asks.

_La tua pelle è come seta_-your skin is like silk

_La prima colazione è sempre freddo_-your breakfast is getting cold

_Che tirchio_-what a cheapskate


	24. Chapter 24

_June 14th_

"Doctor Kelly, your ten o'clock's here." Megan poked her head around the door. She looked back, then whispered "It's _Doctor House_." Her tone held warning and anxiety in equal measure. Clearly House had already made his presence known to the staff.

Christine finished her notes and looked up at her assistant. "I know who it is. Okay, send him in, please." She sat back and drew a breath, unsurprised to find she was nervous. _Really_ nervous. Before she could do anything about it, the door was pushed open wide and Doctor House entered. He moved past Megan as if she didn't exist. Megan took the opportunity to retreat to the relative safety of the waiting room. House came in and stood by Christine's desk. He gave the office a thorough once-over, just as he'd done the first time he visited her some months ago. Christine said nothing, just waited. Eventually he chose one of the visitor's chairs opposite her desk. With a grimace he sat down and faced her.

"Looks like Wilson's old digs," he said, _apropos_ of nothing. "Too much dark wood." He fixed her with a direct stare. "You have something to tell me."

So much for chit-chat, then. "Yes," Christine said; if he could be just-the-facts about this, so could she. Anyway, she knew he preferred that style. "The test results are in, of course. From the physical exam, your own history and the one you provided for your biological father, along with the lab reports, I concur with your assessment of essential tremor." She set the report results on his side of the desk; he'd asked for hard copies, something she hadn't dealt with in years. House picked them up and the papers rustled. He paged through the labs, and Christine admired the speed with which he took in the information. After a minute or two he tossed the reports back onto her desk.

"And?" he said.

"Based on the findings, I believe this to be something similar to writer's tremor. It's not cerebellar, orthostatic, dystonic or psychogenic, nor is it related to any kind of metabolism imbalance or disorder. It's possible excessive use of alcohol and narcotics exacerbated an underlying tendency, but you've been on a liver-repair protocol for some time now. Of course—"

"Oh, here we go," House muttered. Christine paused.

"I'm not gonna scold you," she said in mild reproof. "I know you drink and indulge in the occasional smoke, as well as caffeine. You're old enough to know the consequences, my nagging you won't change anything. On the whole, you're taking care of yourself. I don't foresee the tremor getting worse. It's been stable for several years now, according to what you've told me." She sat back. "But let's be thorough about this. Have you noticed _any_ changes, no matter how small? Voice or head tremors, worsening when you're tired or upset, that kind of thing?"

House rubbed his right thigh. It was something akin to an automatic gesture. Christine knew about the blood clot and misdiagnosis, the consequent muscle death, the debridement, and years later, the regrowth; she wondered how he'd endured the agony all that time, before the stem cell insertion. Certainly it explained the narcotics abuse and possibly even his stay in Mayfield, among other things. "Gets worse when I'm tired." He lifted his hand from his thigh. The tremors noticeable, but not extreme. "Mostly it's the hands. If I've been standing for a while my legs shake a little."

Christine nodded. "All right. I'd like to do another physical exam, with your permission."

House lowered his hand. "Some doctors just love grabbing on me," he said. His blue eyes gleamed with subdued amusement. "Fine, go ahead and cop a feel."

For someone who was seventy-plus, he was in good shape: a little on the thin side, but she had the feeling that was natural for him, with his fast metabolism. Anyway, his muscle tone was decent. Heart rate was fine too, reflexes within normal ranges aside from the tremor itself, skin dry and warm, eyes clear and bright, if a bit bloodshot.

"Having trouble sleeping?" she asked as she lifted his hands in hers.

"My wife's _espresso_ keeps me up." He stared down at her, his challenge clear.

"If you're waking in the small hours, that's actually fairly normal for someone in your age group." She turned his wrists gently, observed and felt the slight shake the gesture caused. He had beautiful hands, strong, elegant and well-kept, with callused fingertips and palms. "If you want something to help you sleep through the night I can give you a prescription for—"

"Nope. Don't need it." House's gaze held hers, his smile sly. Christine bit back a laugh.

"Okay, good to know," she said in a mild tone, and released his hands. "There's not much more I can do at this point. You've seen the tests. Electrolytes, thyroid function, BUN, creatinine, liver function, all well within normal ranges. We can check for Wilson's, but that's a big stretch."

"Horses, not zebras." House stepped back. "I think we're done here."

Christine nodded. "Yes. I'd like to see you again in six months."

House tilted his head to one side a bit. "You think the tremors will get worse."

"I think it's a good idea to keep an eye on things," she said. For one moment she imagined him as a young man. He'd undoubtedly used both bright eyes and sardonic expression to devastating effect on the opposite sex. She almost smiled.

"What?" He raised a brow.

"How on earth does your wife keep up with you?" she said before she could stop herself. House stared at her. Then he smiled, slow and sweet. Without another word he turned and left the office.

"Six months!" Christine called after him. He flapped a hand at her and continued out into the sunny day. There was a slight strut in his walk that hadn't been there before. Christine felt the unwelcome heat of a blush on her face. She retreated to her office and fanned herself with the paper reports, and tried not to think of how House would taunt her mercilessly at their next visit. And how she'd enjoy it, too.

[H]

Greg's just pulled into his driveway when the truth of what Kelly's confirmed finally hits. He manages to get Barbarella to her spot in the shed, shuts her down, and sits there in the sudden quiet for a few moments. He can feel his hands tremble on the wheel, that slight tremor that's always there, and he knows it'll be there for whatever years he has left. It's not pain, at least; he can somehow find it in himself to be grateful for that much, but the damn shakes won't ever go away, and now he has to face it. Stupid notion; he's always had to see the truth, but now he's surprised to find there's a small part of him that apparently had hoped to hear something different—something fixable. Slowly he gets out of the car, shuts the door with care, and heads for the house. He barely sees the day, doesn't care if it's sunny or raining. He just wants to get indoors and . . . and hide, for a while. Just hole up and not think about anything.

The house is quiet when he comes in. Roz is at some meeting at the school, to talk with the science and math teachers about how to handle the usual gang of barely literate idiots the educational system always spawns. She's a popular tutor, and she enjoys her work with the kids for the most part. Now that she has her Master's she's accepted more readily among the professionals, which he thinks is completely moronic but also predictable. People who've dumped a buttload of money into a degree will protect its importance, because it benefits them to do so. Anyone who bucks the system is suspect.

He moves from the kitchen into the living room, and then to the study, slips through the rooms in near silence. Without conscious thought he goes to the desk, sits down. The Booker's is in the bottom right drawer, exactly where he'd kept it in his office in Princeton. He takes the bottle from the drawer, along with the shot glass, and pops the stopper to pour out a double shot. He sets the bottle down, lifts the glass a bit, and stares into the depths. This isn't about oblivion, he's not despondent or desperate; he knows those feelings all too well, they were constant companions for years. No, this is . . . adjustment to the truth. And the truth is that he is not a young man, nor even a middle-aged one anymore. Time, hard use and other variables have taken their toll, and while he has a strong constitution courtesy both his mother and biological father, even the most robust frame must bow to the slow ravages of gravity and years, it's inevitable.

Greg brings the glass to his lips. He smells the fragrance of the spirits, sweet and smoky, before he sips and savors the delicious, familiar fire. It burns through him, and he knows before long it will ease the tremors, for a little while at least. Not a permanent solution by any means; for most of the previous two decades he's been cajoled, browbeaten and pushed into a liver repair regimen that's proven surprisingly effective, and he's not about to undo all that good work and kill off his now-healthy cells in vats of ethanol. Still, for times when he needs an escape from the reality of wear and tear, it'll do. Even his doctor has tacitly acknowledged such a strategy.

He sips the bourbon and stares out the window, and lets himself wonder, for the first time that day, if he should go over to the Goldmans and talk to his shrink. A few weeks ago he would have done it almost without thought, unless Roz was home to talk with first. Now though . . . He looks at the day beyond the glass. The trees rustle in sunlight, cast shadows on the grass that needs to be cut again already. He should open the window, the house has been shut up all winter and there's a nice breeze to enjoy, but he's unwilling to take the few steps to do it.

If he's honest with himself, Greg knows he's scared. He and Sarah have circled each other, come a bit closer with every pass, but they're both afraid to be hurt again, of a continuance of the fight. And that's what it's been, a fight—the first they've had in years. It upsets him to know it can still happen, even in a friendship of long standing. Of course he has his history with Wilson to remind him that things can go downhill alarmingly fast, but then that's Wilson, the descendant of every _yenta_ ever born.

"Hey," Roz says from the doorway. She speaks softly so she won't startle him, then comes into the study to perch on the edge of the desk. For a moment Greg enjoys the fact that she knows the open door is a signal he's all right with her company. "Kelly confirmed the results."

"Yeah," he says, and cradles the glass on his chest. "That she did."

Roz doesn't say anything for a few moments. "What can I do?" she says simply. Greg looks up at her. She returns his gaze, her own steady, sympathetic but no sadness or pity. Not that he expected any from her, he knows her well enough by now to understand she's not built that way.

"Share a shot with me," he says. To his surprise, she reaches out and takes the glass from his fingers. His hand doesn't shake—just a faint little tremor that only he knows about, as far as he can tell. She sips the bourbon and doesn't even make a face. Then she hands the glass back to him.

"My work here is done until later tonight," she says. One corner of her mouth quirks up in a not-quite-smile, and it's then he realizes that she's upset, but she's okay, she's dealt with her emotions. "Now go see your analyst."

Greg stares at her. "Huh," he says after a moment. Roz rolls her eyes.

"Just do it. You know you want to."

"Psychic as well as forebearing," he says to mock her—it's second nature, it's what he does. Fortunately Roz knows it.

"Do it," she says again, and gets up to leave. "This is as good an excuse as any. You both need to talk to each other and clear things up. So go, do." She leans down to kiss him; her lips are soft and taste of bourbon. "_Ti amo_," she says softly, and then she's gone. It takes him a few minutes to realize she didn't even bring up her meeting.

He sits in the office a little while longer, caught between what he must accept, and what he must attempt. After a time he puts the Booker's away, finishes the shot, stands and walks to the window. He opens it wide and sets the prop in place, breathes in the sweet smell of cut hay and warm fresh air. Then he leaves the office and heads out to the Goldman place.


	25. Chapter 25

Sarah put away the pitcher of freshly-brewed iced tea and glanced out the window. It was a nice day; she planned to spend some time in her garden a bit later . . . Her eyes widened. Someone was headed to their house—a tall, lean figure who strode down the path with an all-too-familiar look of determination plastered over his strong features. "My, my," she said softly. "Took you long enough." She glanced at the big jar on the counter, just filled with a batch of oatmeal-raisin cookies she'd baked that morning, and then at the coffeemaker.

She'd just begun to grind the beans when she heard the security code put in and the back door opened, then shut. Sarah kept her back turned as Greg entered the mudroom and stumped up the steps to the kitchen entrance. She felt rather than saw him stand in the doorway, not quite hovering, but indecisive. "Well come on in," she said, and flipped the switch to start the brew. After a moment Greg entered the kitchen. He moved to the breakfast counter but didn't sit down. Sarah turned around. "Good morning," she said, her tone mild. Greg glared at her.

"You know I saw Kelly today," he said.

"No, I didn't," Sarah said. She felt a surge of anxiety. "What's wrong? Are you all right?" She didn't move toward him, but allowed him to see she was worried. His stare softened a bit, though he still looked suspicious.

"Wifey told you, I know she did."

"No, she didn't." Sarah gestured at a stool. "Sit down."

Greg remained on his feet. "You two talk all the time."

"Do you really think we'd discuss your doctor's appointments?" Sarah said in mild exasperation. "You've known me for twenty years now. Aside from one breach of privacy, and I fully admit it was a big one and completely stupid, I haven't made that mistake again. Roz wouldn't say anything to me anyway, even if I did ask, and you know it. So if you want to tell me what happened when you saw Christine, I'm here to listen. But I don't know why you went to her."

Greg didn't move. "The shakes," he said. "It's . . . it's essential tremor." He watched her closely. Sarah leaned against the counter.

"Not Parkinson's," she said after a brief silence. "I'm glad to hear that." She hesitated. "Progressive?"

"Nope."

"All right," she said, relieved. "Get a cup of coffee and let's go into the office."

Greg tilted his head a bit, and Sarah almost smiled at the familiar gesture. "I just came to deliver the news."

"You came over to talk with me," she said. "If all you wanted to do was inform me about the diagnosis you could have sent me a text, or left a message on my inbox." She gestured at the carafe, now full of fresh brew. "You get your coffee, I'll bring the cookies."

A few minutes later they were settled in the office, with Greg in Gene's chair as he usually was. He had both legs up, ankles crossed and propped on the blotter, with two cookies in hand. He munched and stared at Sarah, his vivid gaze full of challenge and defiance. So, she would have to take the first step and prove herself trustworthy. Well, no surprises there. "What exactly did Christine tell you?" she asked.

"You think I'm lying. Trying to gain your sympathy, pulling a fast one—"

"_Greg_." Sarah gave him a direct look. "What did she say?"

"What I told you," he snapped. "Essential tremor. End of story."

"No it isn't, not by a long shot." Sarah sat back. "How do you feel about this outcome?"

"Here we go with the touchy-feely approach."

"It's a valid question," she pointed out. "Illness isn't just a matter of physical examination and diagnosis. Even when you have a good idea of what's coming, when you get confirmation it still has an emotional impact. So answer the question: how do you feel about this?"

"You tell me how you feel about your kid's working for me. That's far more interesting." Greg popped a cookie into his mouth and chewed noisily. Sarah sighed.

"_Quid pro quo_," she said. "Okay, fine. I'm happy he's working for you."

Greg raised his brows. "That's it? No paeans of praise for my good deed in taking on your boy?"

"Good deed, my fat ass." Sarah shook her head. "You wouldn't have bothered with him if he hadn't been fully qualified."

"You're telling me if I hadn't hired him you wouldn't have come storming into my office like Queen Boudicca to defend your son."

"Boudicca probably came to a bad end at her own hand, so thanks a lot for the comparison," Sarah said wryly. "No, I wouldn't have stormed your office. You're free to hire anyone you like. Jason would have eventually found work somewhere else."

"And yet you found it necessary to freak out over the whole writing papers thing."

She'd known this would come up; there was little point to tell him this was no longer _quid pro quo_, but an inquisition. She understood this was a necessary process to re-establish trust on his side of things. "I've had time to think about that first reaction. That's what it was, a reaction, not a choice." She picked up her cup of tea, set it down again. "I've already said there was some cheating going on during my days in college. It angered me that I struggled to get good grades when people used other means. I didn't want Jason to be a part of that. But I didn't give him a chance to explain. I didn't listen to you either. I'm sorry."

"Quite the pretty speech," Greg said softly.

"It's the truth. Take it or leave it." Sarah took up her cup once more. "Your turn."

"No, we're not done here." Greg selected a cookie from the jar and ate half of it in one bite. "Keep going," he said through a mouthful of food. Sarah rolled her eyes.

"You're gonna dislocate your jaw one of these days," she told him, and sipped her tea. "I don't know what else you want, you got a sincere apology."

Greg swallowed and downed a slug of coffee. "There's more to it," he said when he could speak. "Something personal. Something that still pisses you off every time you think about it." He chose another cookie from the jar, his gaze still on her. "Tell."

She knew she had no choice. Sarah held her cup with both hands. "You sure you want to bring that mess to light," she said, more to herself than him. She gathered bits and pieces of memory. "Yeah . . . all right, then."

"'All right then,'" Greg prompted when she fell silent. Sarah sighed.

"It was during my senior undergraduate year. There was an internship up for grabs for first-year grad students with a doctor, a big name. Lots of competition, as you can imagine. We had to submit a sample of writing, a five-page essay. It took me a week to write the draft, revise it, re-write it, edit and shape it up. Writing's always been hard for me. I can see what I want to say, but the words never come out right somehow." Her fingers tightened on the cup just a bit. "You can guess the rest. I sent in my essay, someone else got the internship. Someone who bought their sample."

"You're pissed off that you didn't win," Greg said when she fell silent.

"No," Sarah said, and knew she sounded terse, even angry. "It wasn't that. I never expected an equal playing field. Some people are smarter, some aren't. I didn't have much of a chance anyway. But this . . . this isn't that. It was someone changin' where the game's played and not tellin' anyone else where the new location was, so they won by default." She set aside her tea. "With that internship I could have graduated earlier, maybe have gotten a better job."

"And that's it?" Greg said after she fell silent. He sounded incredulous. "All this _geshry_ing over a stupid meaningless internship that would maybe have gotten you out of school a year earlier, or earned you a spot nominally better than Mayfield. It wouldn't have changed anything in the long run, and here you are still hanging onto it."

"Yeah, I am," Sarah snapped. "The girl who bought the paper was a friend of mine, at least until she cheated."

"Big deal. People do it all the time, that wouldn't have bothered you this much." Greg watched her. "There's more."

"The doctor knew it was a bogus essay, but she didn't care," Sarah said after a short, tense silence. "Apparently it amused her to watch us all fighting to get that internship, like sharks in a feeding frenzy. She told stories about us at conferences, funny little anecdotes to make her peers laugh. I didn't find that out until years later, when someone told me one of those great stories . . ." Sarah felt her throat try to close up, but she forced herself to keep talking. "All those years of struggle, reduced to a joke."

Greg said nothing for a few moments. Then he sat back, tucked his hands behind his head, and gave her a challenging glare. "Your backstory is bullshit."

Sarah blinked. Indignation swept through her. "Is _not_."

"Is too. You've been hanging onto this for years as justification for all the suffering you decided to endure." Greg's blue eyes glinted. "It's total balls and you know it."

Annoyance turned almost instantly to anger. "Easy for you to say," she snapped. "You were on the other side of things in school, weren't you?"

"There were no sides," Greg said, and now he sounded angry too. "There was only surviving the complete pointlessness of it all long enough to get a degree."

"It was pointless because it was easy for you! You never had to learn how to construct a sentence or—or read a text to pick up salient points because you already knew the answers, you'd known them for years! Writing papers, selling answers, of course none of that meant anything!"

"You've been jealous of that all this time." The words dropped into her like stones. She heard the hurt behind the harshness and knew only honesty would keep him from bolting.

"I'm jealous, yes," she said. "I'd have given anything to have such a vast store of knowledge at my fingertips, the way it is for you. When I showed up at school, all I knew—" She drew in a breath. "All I knew was how to ride a horse and . . . and stay quiet when someone climbed into my bed at two a.m."

"So we're back to that again," Greg said after a brief, charged silence. "You're not a decent woman because you grew up with assholes who had no brains or money to speak of, and as a consequence they took their problems out on you because you couldn't stop them." He plunked his coffee cup on the desk. "Don't make that my fault. You think it's a blessing to have a fucking endless differential with a search engine jammed into your mental processes. I can tell you it's not. I can't turn it on and off, it's there all the time, even in the middle of making love to my wife, dammit! So don't turn it into my fault that your kid decided to earn some money on the side in a way you find morally reprehensible or unacceptable or whatever term you have on tap, just because I'm smarter than you! You're the one who talked about not expecting a level playing field!"

They sat in silence for some time. Sarah gathered the shreds of her composure and struggled to think about what Greg had said.

"I hate it that I'm jealous of you," she said after a time. "I don't want to be."

"I don't give a shit if you are. You wouldn't be the first, and you won't be the last. Just stop pretending you're not."

"I wasn't pretending! I—I didn't know." She felt stupid and small. "Now I do." She took a mouthful of tepid tea, swallowed it with a grimace. "_Quid pro quo_."

Greg took a cookie and leaned forward to set the jar on her desk. "Have something to eat first. You look a little peaky."

"Like you care," she said, though she knew he did. "Anyway, I'm a redhead. I'm naturally peaky."

"Damn stubborn woman," Greg growled, and took a cookie from the jar. He slapped it on the blotter in front of her. It promptly disintegrated from such rough treatment and spread over the paper like a cow pat. To her surprise Sarah felt a laugh bubble up. She tried to hold it back, but it came out as a giggle. When she dared a look at Greg, his lips twitched as he fought a smile. That did it. She had to laugh; even he snorted out a chuckle.

"So it's your turn," she said, as she picked up pieces of cookie and ate them, and enjoyed the taste of oats, raisins and brown sugar. "Tell me what you felt when you got the diagnosis."

[H]

"How did I feeeeel," Greg says, and draws out the word. Sarah gives him a look as she picks up another piece of cookie. "Feeeelings."

"Don't you dare sing that stupid song," she says, and pops the chunk of oatmeal-raisin in her mouth.

"Trust you to take all the fun out of things." He glances at his now-cold coffee. "Need a fresh cuppa joe to get through this."

Sarah sits back. "Stall all you like, I know where you live," she says, and the amusement in her words spurs him into action.

So not only does he get a fresh brew, he makes himself a robust sandwich, grabs the unopened bag of chips, and even raids Sarah's chocolate stash. When he brings all this swag with him she raises a brow but says nothing. He sweeps aside the last remnants of deceased cookie, sets the food on her blotter, picks up the sandwich and takes a large bite. As he chews he watches her. She looks back at him, and he sees both affection and worry in those sea-green eyes. Still, he won't let cheap sentiment sway him.

"It's still your turn," she says when he swallows and lifts the sandwich for another bite. "I can wait till you're done stuffing that bottomless pit you call a stomach, but you'd do better to start talking now."

"And spray food all over everything?"

"As if that's stopped you in the past." Sarah folds her arms. "Quid. Pro. Quo." Each word is pronounced with exquisite clarity. She means business, he knows it. He still takes the second bite, savors the taste of roast beef, cheddar and horseradish on homemade white bread, a simple blend of which he'll never tire. When the mouthful of sandwich is gone he slugs down some coffee and pretends to wince.

"Burned my tongue," he says.

"Too bad. Talk."

"It's idiotic to ask how I felt. What difference does it make? Any emotions I experienced are not relevant to the diagnosis."

"I understand you think that," she says with marked patience. "We're not discussing the diagnosis itself in clinical terms. In fact we're not discussing anything because you're dancing around like a cat on hot bricks, mainly because you find it amusing to do so."

He stops with the sandwich halfway to his mouth. "Amusing? _Amusing?_"

Sarah rolls her eyes. "Good to know I can always count on you to be a drama queen too."

"First a cat, and now a queen. For your information I happen to be pretty secure in my sexuality." He takes an enormous bite of sandwich.

"I'm happy for you. I'd be even happier if you'd stop jerkin' me around and answer my question." Sarah takes a cookie from the jar.

"Once on the lips, twice on the hips," Greg says when he can speak.

"Like I care. I already have a man and he doesn't mind if I've got a bubble butt," Sarah says. "I'm beginning to think you freaked out when Christine told you the results."

Of course this is nothing more than provocation, intellectually he knows that. But he's offended by the insinuation that he panicked or couldn't handle things.

"Didn't," he says, and glares at her.

"Don't believe you," she says, and munches her cookie.

"Don't care." Sarah takes another bite of cookie and says nothing. Greg lowers the sandwich. "I don't."

"Okay." She chews and swallows, finishes the cookie, and sips her tea. The silence stretches between them.

"It's not important," he says finally.

"It's my job to decide that, not yours." She holds her cup and gives him a direct look. "Just say it."

That sounds suspiciously like an order, not a request. "See, that's the trouble with you shrinks. You have to find out all this stuff that really isn't any of your business, which you know isn't your business but you—"

"Greg." She cuts across his babble with that single soft word. He stops, watches her with wary caution. "Do you trust me?"

"Bringing out the big guns," he says after a moment. Sarah nods.

"Yes. Do you trust me?"

"It's not that simple," Greg says. He's nervous now. "It's more about you trusting me to know how I feel."

"I'm well aware of that," Sarah says quietly. "But you talked about this with anyone else because you really aren't sure of your feelings, and I think that's a mistake. You should tell someone. So why don't you start with me? Unless you feel I'm not trustworthy."

He fidgets, puts the sandwich down, picks it up. "It's not that simple," he says again.

"Why?"

"Because it might excite your latent jealousy," he says, to riff on their previous conversation.

"Nice try," Sarah says in a dry tone. "You haven't truthfully answered either question I asked you. That leads me to believe you think I won't like your answers, might even reject or attack you. So in a roundabout way that gives me the answer to the second question, and also tells me why you won't answer the first one—you don't trust me."

"Nice logic," Greg says, impressed despite himself.

"Then it's true." Sarah finishes the last of her cookie.

"No." The word slips out before he can stop it. Sarah doesn't look at him.

"No?" she says mildly.

"You're not a parrot," he snaps. He stares down at his sandwich, but his appetite has deserted him. "It isn't that I don't trust you."

"All right," Sarah says after a moment, still in that mild tone, "let's see if we can figure out what's going on," and he knows a vast relief at her willingness to talk, because she's correct-he hasn't really sorted all this out himself. For the first time in a very long while, he takes comfort in the fact that he's here, he's with someone who knows and understands him, and likes him anyway. "Tell me what happened at Christine's office."

"I went in, discussed the test findings, went home."

"You discussed the findings. I'm presuming she confirmed what you already knew, that it was essential tremor." Greg hesitates, then nods. "Okay. You probably talked about whether or not it would progress, then protocols, medications, therapy." He nods again. "You were sure of the diagnosis, but I'm certain you felt relief that you hadn't missed something and discovered it was Parkinson's. A long shot, but you're too thorough."

"Bio dad's history indicated essential tremor. He told me himself a year before he died," Greg says, and ignores the little wince of sadness deep inside.

"So you knew Hawkeye's line inherited the predisposition. That gave you primary evidence for your symptoms, and the tests confirmed it." Sarah's gaze is steady on his. "That must have engendered several emotions. No doubt a couple of them were contradictory."

"I didn't feel anything." Now it's out. "Not in the office. That was just . . . fact-finding."

"Do you think you should have felt something then?"

"I don't know," he mutters. "I've already stated emotions are pointless in diagnosis. They—they get in the way. So it was just as well."

"But you still feel guilty about that." He says nothing, a silent, reluctant assent. "What do you think you should have felt in that moment? Relief, anger, sadness?"

"I knew I was right. That's all that matters."

"How you felt and still feel about this matters too," Sarah says. "You're a diagnostician, but you're also a patient." She tilts her head just a bit. "There's the rub, however. This holds echoes of the other time you were a patient, when you were confused and scared and full of rage at incompetent doctors, and helpless to do anything about it."

Her soft words bring bits of memories, stark, bitter, as if the years between have melted away. He makes a feeble attempt to negate her observation. "Nope."

"More like 'yup'." She watches him with such quiet compassion. "The outcome of the misdiagnosis for the blood clot, the muscle death, they defined your life for years. They still do to some extent at least. Of course you were worried the symptoms were something bigger than essential tremor. It's a logical fear based on previous experience."

He listens to her make sense out of what has to this point seemed like ridiculous indulgence. The sequence of events and their outcome falls into place, and understanding replaces anxiety. "Why couldn't I see that?" he says, and doesn't realize he's spoken aloud until Sarah answers him.

"Because there's no distance between you and the patient." She offers him a slight smile. "Now if you can, tell me what you felt."

No, not yet, he can't do it yet, he's too close to it now. For answer he reaches out, takes her cup, gets to his feet, and flees the office.

He's in the kitchen as he waits for the kettle to boil when Sarah says behind him, "It's all right to be scared." Her hand comes to rest on his arm, that familiar butterfly touch. "It's normal." She gives him the lightest of caresses. "I'll be in the office eating chocolate."

She indeed does that very thing when he comes in. He puts the cup of tea down in front of her and resumes his seat, wary of what comes next.

"We've pushed far enough for one day," she says, to his surprise. "I think you need some time to sort things out, talk to Roz. If . . . if you want to come over again in a few days and work on this some more, that would be all right." She pops a piece of chocolate into her mouth and is careful not to look at him. Greg understands then this is the olive branch. If he refuses, not only will things go back to the way they've been for several weeks, something will be lost for good and they'll both be infinitely the poorer for it. He finds he doesn't want to lose that something either. So he gives a single nod of acknowledgment, and picks up what's left of his sandwich.

"And you can call anytime," she says. Now he knows she gets what's at stake too, and doesn't want to lose it either.

"Don't nag," he says, and stuffs the last of the sandwich in his mouth. Sarah rolls her eyes.

"Guess I'd better stock up," she says, but under the sarcasm there's a distinct note of what sounds suspiciously like happiness. Greg swallows, licks his fingers, and stares at her.

"Genoa salami," he says. "Smoked turkey. And not sliced so thin you can read through it."

"Anything else?" She smiles though. He knows when he comes over again, the fridge will have everything he told her to get, and more besides.

"Plenty of cold beer. If you going to interrogate me under hot lights, I need alcohol."

To her credit, Sarah doesn't look at his hands. "Talk to Gene about the beer. I think it's your turn to buy the next case."

"No way!" He munches some chips and scatters crumbs all over the blotter. "Cheapskate."

"That's good coming from you." Sarah's smile widens. "Bring Roz over, we'll have a pizza and game night, maybe pick some tunes. Haven't done that for a while."

He likes the sound of that, and nods. "'kay." He closes up the bag of chips, dumps it on his plate and stands.

They move together through the quiet living room, past the big table and into the kitchen. Sarah puts his plate on the counter. Before he can turn away, she comes forward and enfolds him in a gentle embrace. She doesn't say anything, just holds him. Greg stands there in the circle of her arms; he can smell her shampoo, feel the warmth of her body.

"Thanks for coming over," she says. "I've missed you." The quiet honesty in her words is as comforting as her physical touch, something he can admit to himself, if not her. Then she lets him go, pats his shoulder. "Call me about coming over for dinner," she says.

"I will." He looks at her, still unable to express aloud what he feels. She offers him a slight smile.

"I know," she says. "It's okay."

He takes those simple words with him as he walks home through the bright, soft day.


	26. Chapter 26

_June 18th_

Jason glanced at his link. Three p.m.; his clinic hours were done at last. The last two hours had been so boring he'd studied lab results on the clinic patients out of sheer desperation for something to do. Even that hadn't been enough—he'd cleaned out his inbox and balanced his checking account. Now he had an hour before he had to be at Lou's.

With alacrity he logged out and took off just as his replacement, Wayne, came in. He said nothing to the other man; the record of his hours was there if his colleague wanted to check on his work for some reason. Wayne looked as if he wanted to say something, but he remained silent as Jason departed. Jason felt a twinge of guilt, but only for a moment. Wayne had plenty of opportunities to say whatever he pleased when they were at the practice. Undoubtedly he'd make any opinions known eventually.

In the truck he made a quick call. "Hey," Mandy said. She sounded pleased. "What's up?"

"Got a little time before I have to be at my other job," Jason said. "Can I come over?"

"Of course. I haven't eaten yet today, too busy trying to get a chapter finished. I'll make us some sandwiches. Okay?"

"Yeah, thanks. See you in a few."

He drove slowly, mainly because he was in town and it was impossible to go much beyond a crawl, but he wasn't resentful. This was a visit he'd planned for some time now, and while he knew it had to be done, he was in no hurry to start. Eventually Mandy's house came into view. He pulled Minnie Lou into the driveway, put her in park, turned off the motor, and sat for a moment. Then he climbed out and went to the side kitchen door.

"Come on in." Mandy stood at the counter as she cut the sandwiches. She looked cool and comfortable in a tank top and shorts, glossy brown hair free of restraint, her feet bare. Jason took in the view and wondered for the thousandth time if he'd chosen the right course. He set the thought aside and came forward. She put down the knife and turned to him, lifted her face to his as her arms came up to hold him. He returned her embrace and kissed her, aware of her soft lips, her sweet curves under his hands, the warmth of her pressed to him. After a moment she pulled back a bit. "What is it?" she said. Jason didn't answer right away.

"Let's sit down."

They ended up on the back porch, side by side in the warm sun. Mandy took his hand in hers. "Whatever it is, you know you can tell me," she said.

"It's hard," Jason said. He looked down at their hands linked together, a familiar sight. "I love you, you know that."

"I know. I love you too." Mandy lifted her gaze to the quiet street, drowsing in the sunshine. "But it isn't enough, is it?"

Her ability to jump several levels ahead in the conversation still surprised him after all this time. He'd known she would understand, but it shamed him that she was the one to say it, not him. "I'm sorry."

She gave his hand a little squeeze. "No, don't be. You never promised anything you didn't have to give, and you've always been truthful. Anyway . . . I've known for a long time." They sat in silence for a little while. "Have you found someone else?"

"No," Jason said. "But things are changing, and . . . it isn't right to let you think I might ask . . ." He stopped, aware of a tight knot in his chest. "If circumstances were different, we'd be together."

"If wishes were horses, then beggars would ride," Mandy said. She looked at him and there were tears in her eyes, but she still managed a slight smile.

They ate together in her sunny dining room, with music on the stream and the distant sound of children playing in someone's back yard. "How's the new book going?" Jason asked. He knew it was a lame topic of conversation, but he couldn't return to the previous one. He'd hurt her enough, he didn't want to add to it.

"Jay, it's all right. You don't have to do chit-chat with me." Mandy pushed her plate away and took a sip of iced tea. "I'd rather remember good times." She glanced at him. "I still remember when we became friends. You stood up for me on the bus."

"You gave me a seat when you knew Ferguson and his idiots had it in for me." He sat back a bit, memories of that day bright in his mind's eye.

"You didn't mind sitting next to the fat girl." Mandy put a hand on his shoulder, rubbed it gently.

"I never thought you were fat. You're gorgeous, you always have been." Jason closed his eyes at her touch and leaned into it a bit.

"Thanks. You have no idea what a difference that made for a nerdy bookworm like me." She smiled. "And still does."

"I really do want to know about the chapter," he said after a brief silence.

"I'm stuck right now, but it's okay. I'm two books ahead of schedule anyway, so I can take some time off." Mandy removed her hand and Jason almost asked her to put it back. "Have you read any of my stories?"

"Yeah," he said, and smiled a little at her surprise. "I kept them handy for the times when I'd have a few minutes to read. Still do. I always did like your stories best."

"Thanks. That means a lot." She kissed his cheek, rested her head on his shoulder. "I wish . . ."

He sighed. "Me too."

They stayed that way for some time, until finally Mandy lifted her head. She wiped her eyes and glanced at her link. "You have to be at Lou's at four, right?"

He helped her clean up. When the chore was done he took her hands in his. "If . . . if it would be easier for you to have me leave, I'll do it."

Mandy didn't speak at first. Then she said quietly "That's the best thing anyone's ever offered me, Jay."

"I mean it," he said just as quietly.

"I know you do." She looked up at him, then leaned in and kissed him, a soft, lingering press of her lips to his. "Thanks. I'll be okay," she said softly when the kiss ended. "We're still friends. I wouldn't want to lose that." She drew back and released his hands. "You'd—you'd better get going now, you'll be late."

She walked with him to the truck and stayed there while he reversed out of the driveway and headed down the street. His last glimpse of her was as she watched him in the dappled shade of the maple trees.

Work at the kitchen seemed to take forever. Jason tried to find a little comfort in the familiar routines of a busy Friday night, but he felt isolated and out of synch with everyone around him. Halfway through he took a five-minute break, grabbed a cold Coke from the cooler and went out to sit on the back step. It was a soft evening, the sky still colored with a vivid sunset; streaks of gold and crimson glowed against the dark blue sky. Jason wiped the sweat from his forehead and took a long swallow of cold pop, to nearly jump out of his skin when Julie said behind him "You okay?"

"_Jesus_," he snapped. His voice was loud in the quiet, gathering darkness.

"Hey, sorry." Julie opened the screen door and came out, to plunk down next to him. "What's wrong?"

"Nothing." He swigged another long drink from the can. Julie snorted.

"Bullshit. You've been brooding all evening. That's not like you."

"I'm fine." _Go away! _he snarled at her in his head. Julie reached out and snagged the can of Coke, took a long sip, handed it back.

"Okay," she said with a cheerfulness that made him grit his teeth. "When you're ready to talk about it, I'll listen. But don't take too long." She got up and went back into the kitchen. The screen door slapped shut behind her. Jason eyed his Coke. With a sigh he got up, followed her inside and dumped the remaining contents down the sink, rinsed the can and tossed it into the recycling bin. He stared at the bin for a few moments, then strode to the main prep station, grabbed his apron and put it on, and began work on the next order.

By the time they'd finished the clean-down and setup for later that morning, Jason felt like he'd run a marathon. He wanted nothing more than to crawl into bed and sleep for hours. He had the day off and wouldn't have to be back at Lou's until noon, and he planned to take advantage of the chance to sleep in.

He fell asleep on the way home and didn't wake until the truck pulled into the driveway. Slowly he parked, shut off the motor and gathered up his things. The walk through the yard to the back door felt interminable. He put in his code and entered the numbers slowly so he wouldn't make a mistake and wake up the whole house. Once inside he dumped his clothes by the washer, left his briefcase propped against the pile and went into the kitchen. He didn't need the oven's overhead light to guide him to the cookie jar. He extracted half a dozen oatmeal-raisin cookies, wrapped them in a paper towel, and trudged past the dining table into the living room, to find Mom awake and stretched out on the couch as she watched a movie. At his entrance she turned her head.

"Long night," she said in her soft voice, and suddenly Jason wanted nothing more than to hug his mom and talk to her about his visit with Mandy. He tried to shove it away, but the need only grew stronger. He stopped in the middle of the living room, torn between the tantalizing prospect of bed, and relief for the deep ache inside.

"Jason? What's wrong?" Mom sounded worried now. With a sigh Jason gave in; he couldn't go off to bed with her anxious for his well-being, he'd done enough damage to someone he loved for one day. He shuffled over to the couch, sat down next to Mom and put the cookies on the coffee table. He hesitated, not sure how to start.

"Take your time," Mom said. She put a hand on his arm, rubbed gently. "When you're ready."

"I saw Mandy today," Jason said. The next words stuck in his throat, but he forced them out anyway. "I told her . . . I didn't love her. I mean I do love her, just not . . ." He sighed. "She was the first girl I ever fell in love with—well, the only one, but I don't . . . something changed when I was in Boston."

"Of course. You changed," Mom said. "You got older, you had new experiences. You and Mandy went separate ways. That's natural and normal."

"I don't want it to be." The ache in his chest intensified. "I know it's stupid to say that, but it's the truth. I—I miss her. I miss . . . us. She's been my best friend for years."

"I think you'll always be friends. But you did the right thing in telling Mandy the truth about how you feel. That tells her and me too that you respect her."

"It doesn't feel that way to me," he said, and couldn't hide the bitterness. "It feels like I'm dumping her."

"You're not," Dad said from the dining room. He came into the living room and sat on the couch next to Jason. "Didn't mean to eavesdrop. I heard you two talkin' while I was in the kitchen to get some water." He patted Jason's knee, then sat back a little. "Sounds to me like you love her enough to treat her right. That's a good thing, you know."

"Maybe it is, but I feel like shit." Jason felt the knot inside tighten. "She wants more and I can't—can't do it."

"That happens," Dad said. "It's not your fault. It's not hers either. Things would be a lot worse if the two of you tried to make your feelings something they're not."

"Your dad and I know how this feels," Mom said. She rubbed Jason's back gently. "I lived with someone before what's-his-name over there showed up."

"Thanks," Dad said dryly. "Yeah, me too, I had someone. We cared about each other but it wasn't love, not the kind that keeps you together. Didn't find that till I met your mom."

"James and I love each other a bit like the way you and Mandy do," Mom said. "But we both knew it wasn't enough for us. If we'd stayed together it would have eventually driven us apart."

"But you always say you should be best friends with the person you want to be with," Jason said slowly.

"That's true, but you need to take it a step farther. Can you see you and Mandy living together, maybe getting married, possibly having children?" Mom asked.

"No," Jason said with some reluctance. He'd tried a number of times to imagine a future with Mandy as his partner, but somehow he'd never seemed able to do it.

"Do you think you could be a couple?" Mom asked.

"Not really. It just feels like we'd be settling, because it's what we know. We'd be okay together probably, but it's not enough." Jason scrubbed a hand over his face. He was so tired . . . "I don't know if this was a mistake or not."

"You're too wiped out to think straight," Dad said. "Go to bed. We can talk about this in the morning, if you want to."

Jason nodded and got to his feet. Mom and Dad stood with him. Mom gave him a hug and put her cheek to his for a moment. "Sleep well," she said. Dad hugged him too, and kissed his forehead just as he used to do when Jason was much younger.

"See you in the morning."

A familiar feeling briefly penetrated the fog of exhaustion; the absolute astonishment that these two people had taken him on, and apparently still loved him despite the havoc he'd wreaked. He didn't deserve any of what they offered, but he was glad for them all the same.

When he entered his room, Jason found his bed made and the light on. He struggled out of his clothes, climbed in and managed to shut off the lamp before he sank straight into sleep.

When he woke, bright sunlight peeked through the curtains and a soft breeze full of the smell of fresh-cut grass filled the room; he could hear Dad run the brush hog in the front yard. Slowly he rolled over, squinted at the old travel clock he kept on the nightstand. It was a little after eight. With a groan he turned back, pulled a pillow over his head and snuggled into his nest.

He woke the second time to the smell of coffee and bacon. His empty belly rumbled loud and long. Slowly Jason turned and glanced at the travel clock. It was just before before ten. He stretched a bit and pushed the covers aside, then sat up. He felt muzzy and a bit disoriented. A shower and some breakfast would clear that up.

He was on his way into the bathroom when Mom passed him. She stopped and peered at him as he shambled by, but said only "Breakfast is ready whenever you are."

Twenty minutes later Jason entered the kitchen, got a mug and poured some coffee. It tasted like pure heaven. He let the hot liquid seep into his system and thought about last night's conversation. There was some comfort to know both parents had gone through a similar situation, or at least understood the confused babble he'd offered as explanation. He didn't exactly relish the knowledge that he'd need to talk about it all over again, but at least now he didn't feel quite so overwhelmed.

Mom came in as he poured a second cup. "Soak up some of that caffeine with food or you'll be doing laps around the walls. Your dad made that batch of coffee and you know he's as bad as Greg about making it strong," she said with a smile. She'd been out in the garden; her work gloves still hung from the back pocket of her jeans. "There's bacon in the pan and I can do some eggs if you like."

"I can make breakfast, Mom."

"You'll be in the kitchen all day. I do know how to cook."

So Jason sat at the breakfast counter and watched her at the stove. It felt oddly comforting to participate in this old ritual; she'd often done the same thing during his years at home, and on visits from college and med school.

"Are things a little clearer now that you've had some sleep? You were dead on your feet last night," Mom said.

"I don't know." Jason sipped his coffee. "A little."

Mom didn't say anything until she put his plate in front of him and handed him a fork. Then she said quietly "You're feeling guilty."

Jason took a bite of egg and considered her words. The diagnosis fit, he had to admit it. "Maybe," he said with some reluctance when he could speak.

"No wonder you and Greg work well together. You're both stubborn as hell," Mom said. She put a plate of buttered toast on the counter. "You've been close friends with Mandy for years. She's loved you for a very long time, and she was your first love. But you've grown away from her." She sat next to him. "You don't owe her your love just because of your history, sweetheart. That's not how it works."

"Why not? It should be that way." Jason stared down at his plate. "It should make sense. This is . . . it's stupid. It's pointless. It hurts."

Mom put her hand on his arm. "Oh, honey. Love is never gonna make sense, ever. People have been trying to figure it out since time began, and they'll keep trying till time runs out, but you can't apply logic or reason to something that comes from the oldest part of us."

"It feels like I'm abandoning her." The words rushed out. "Like she's not good enough, when it's me—I'm the one who isn't good enough for her. She should find someone better. Someone who can love her the way she deserves."

"Jason, you're not abandoning her. I want you to understand that right now." Mom sounded stern. "This isn't about not being good enough for someone. There's nothing right or wrong about not loving someone the way they love you. It's just what is." She paused. "This is about your biological parents. You think you're like them somehow because of this."

The fear he'd felt since yesterday lodged in his throat; he couldn't say anything, so he just nodded. Mom's fingers tightened gently on his arm. "Jason, look at me." With reluctance he lifted his gaze to hers. "You are not your mom and dad. They were too broken to get help. You weren't. You let us in, and allowed us to love you in spite of everything that happened to you as a child. That tells me you have a tremendous capacity to love and be loved. Don't judge that capacity by what's happened with one person." She leaned in and kissed his cheek. "Anyone would be proud to have you love them," she said. "Now eat your breakfast and remember that when you feel bad or guilty. Okay?"

"I'll try," he said, and returned her kiss as Dad came in. He looked sweaty, tired and pleased with himself.

"Got the front yard done," he said, and slapped his gloves on the counter before he made his way to the coffee pot. Mom rolled her eyes.

"Get those damn dirty gloves out of my kitchen!"

"You got a pair hangin' outta your own pocket, ya hypocrite," Dad said. He chose a mug, filled it with brew and took a sip. He eyed Jason and smiled, though his gaze held concern. "Things a little better in the morning light?"

"Yeah, more or less," Jason said. He picked up his fork and began to eat. Dad nodded.

"That's good." He moved to the skillet, turned on the burner and sang under his breath. "'I wonder wonder mmm ba dooo/who-who wrote the book of love?'"

"Stop it," Mom said in a warning tone. Dad grinned at her.

"Hey, everyone in this room knows that song. Hell, most of the world does. Nothing wrong with admitting it." He took the last slices of bacon from the pile. "'Aaaaas I walk along, I wonderrrrrrr what went wrong/with our love, a love that was so stroooong'—"

"Eugene, you are not helping!" Mom snapped, but Jason heard the tremble of laughter in her voice. He ate a bite of bacon and decided to enjoy the little moment of kabuki theater played out in front of him. He knew that it was mainly for his benefit, but he didn't mind. Mom and Dad were good at this.

"Do you think Jason is taking this too seriously? Me too, I think he's taking it entirely too seriously." Dad cracked two eggs into the skillet and picked up a piece of bacon. "'Wishin' you were here by me/to end this misery,'" he sang, and pointed the bacon at Jason. "'I wonder/I wah-wah-wah-wah wonder,'" he sang in a cracked falsetto, "'why—why why why why/she ran away—'"

"Watch where you're aimin' that bacon, buster," Mom said. Dad lifted it to his mouth like a microphone.

"'And I wonder where she will stay/my little runaway,'" he finished the lyric, then took a bite. Jason tried to keep it inside, but the laugh came out anyway. Dad nodded as he chewed. Mom shook her head.

"Honest to god, it's like livin' in a three-ring circus," she said on a sigh. "Fine, I'm off to finish my gardening." She gave Jason's arm a little squeeze, then let go and stood. "You get to wash up," she informed Dad, and left the kitchen.

"Good, more toast for me and Jason," Dad said.

"I heard that!"

"Love you dear," Dad said loudly. He dug his eggs out of the pan, dumped them on the plate with the remaining bacon, grabbed a fork, and took Mom's seat. He sprinkled his eggs with a generous amount of pepper and glanced at Jason. "Mandy will get over it," he said, and shoveled in a forkful of eggs.

"You don't know that," Jason said. Dad swallowed and sat back a bit.

"Yeah, I do. I know her pretty well. She'll find a way to come to terms with things. You need to let her. It'll take a while, it usually does. But she'll figure things out. You should do the same."

Jason thought about that while he and Dad ate in companionable silence. Once he'd cleaned up his eggs and bacon and taken a piece of toast, he said what was on his mind. "What if I'm wrong?"

"You're not. I've seen you with her. You love her like a good friend, you care about her, but there's no spark. That's okay. You'll find someone else. So will she. After a while, you'll both be all right with how things stand. Just give it some time."

Jason nodded. That fit with what Mom had said. "Yeah . . . okay. I'll try."

"Good." Dad snagged some toast. "Once you get things set up with David for someone to take over for you, we should go fishin'. I wouldn't mind bringin' home a string of trout or muskies for Mom to fry up."

"I'd like that too." Jason glanced at his link; he had a little over an hour before he had to be at work. "Why don't we clean up together and take a look at the tackle box and gear? Maybe we could go shopping tomorrow to get what we need."

"Sounds like a plan to me," Dad said. He put a hand on Jason's shoulder for a moment as he got to his feet. "Well done, Jay." He collected up the plates and silverware, munched a last bite of bacon. Jason rose also, and walked with him to the sink.

An hour later he climbed into Minnie Lou, started the engine and headed off down the road. He felt somewhat lighter than he had twenty-four hours ago. The pain was still there, but he would be all right. He hoped Mandy felt the same way. He'd call her later . . . maybe. If it felt right for her, and him too.

With a quiet sigh he put on the music stream.

_you'll remember me when the west wind moves_

_upon the fields of barley_

_you'll forget the sun in his jealous sky_

_as we walk in fields of gold_

'_Who Wrote the Book of Love,' the Monotones_

'_Runaway,' Del Shannon_

'_Fields of Gold,' Sting_


	27. Chapter 27

_June 25th_

"Gather round, little children, and let us discuss the test results for our current sufferer before we dive into the pool of potential money generators, AKA patients." House entered the conference room and made his way to his chair at the head of the table. Jason took a large swallow of coffee and looked over the files. He opened the first one, to have House slap it shut.

"Now, now." The older man moved the chair back and sat down. Chase gave Jason a wry look.

"No points for putting a polish on teacher's apple," he said. Norton chuckled. House fixed the younger doctor with a piercing glare and he fell silent. Jason hid a smile.

"Test results confirm _la diva_ Goldman's tentative, which is a polite word for chickenshit, diagnosis. Intermediate beta thalassemia it is. Recommended treatment?" House waved his hand at them. "Discuss."

Everyone looked at Jason. He looked back at them and said nothing. House rolled his eyes. "Goldman, perhaps you would enlighten your colleagues. They seem to be clueless."

"Blood transfusion," Wayne said quickly. He shot a sidelong look at Jason. "Chelation to follow to remove excess iron. Send the patient home with a diet sheet to help them avoid iron-rich foods."

"She'll need to supplement," Steinman said. "Folic acid, C and E."

"Bone marrow transplant if it gets worse," Norton chipped in.

House tilted his head to look at Jason. "Anything to add, _wunderkind_?"

"There's a new therapy in research now, using protein AHSP to regulate the amount of alpha protein in blood cells. A couple of places here on the East Coast are working on it. If the patient's family is interested, we could provide them with contact information." Jason kept his tone neutral. "There's also gene therapy, though that's also experimental for now."

House nodded. "Good enough. Send the _shiksa_ home with her door prizes. Now let's get crackin' on new admissions. Empty beds don't generate income, so fill 'em up."

Jason opened the folder on top of the pile and scanned the first page, flipped through to the next, then looked over a stack of test results going back a few years. He frowned. Something wasn't right here, but he wasn't sure what that meant just yet.

"Fifteen year old male presents with seizures, confusion and hallucinations," Steinman said. "Apparently he's throwing clots all over the place as well."

"Makes for a messy environment," House said. "And . . . ?" He waved his hand at them to continue.

"Stroke," Norton said, but he looked doubtful.

"If it was a simple diagnosis like stroke, the kid wouldn't be here," Wayne said. He selected a doughnut from the plate in the center of the table and took a bite. Jason removed the test results from the file and began to look through them again.

"What is it?" Chase said quietly. Jason shook his head.

"I don't know," he said simply. "These results don't make sense. Wayne's right—if it was simple this patient wouldn't be here, unless a complex answer is hidden by something more straightforward." He began to sort through the results. "We've got seizures and hallucinations in one report, in another we have clots found in the limbs, but none in the heart, lungs or brain. It also appears the blood flow to the brain hasn't yet been compromised. So . . . why is the patient seizing and seeing things?"

"Reduced blood flow in the extremities could cause changes in brain chemistry over time," Steinman offered.

"Possible," Chase said. "Seizures and hallucinations are fairly extreme changes though. I'd expect to see something like numbness or tingling, pain, swelling, not 'patient reports dead Uncle Fred hanging over the bed'."

Wayne snorted. Steinman removed the test and lab results from her folder. "Let's sort them out," she said. "One pile for blood clots and symptoms, the other for seizures and seeing things that aren't there."

Within a few minutes there were little stacks of paper on the table. Most people had two. Jason had three. Wayne gave him a sardonic look. "Something you're not telling us?"

"There are some overlapping symptoms that can't be sorted into either main group," Jason said. He stared down at the papers, then up at Chase and House. "We should take this one, in my opinion."

Chase lifted a brow. He sat back and glanced at House, who snagged two doughnuts from the plate and stared at Jason. "In your opinion," he said, and took a huge bite of pastry. Jason nodded.

"Yes. There's something going on here that a dozen doctors haven't been able to figure out. I think we can."

"You mean you," Wayne sneered. Jason paused.

"Look, I don't know what bug you have up your ass, but we're supposed to be a team working together—"

"Since when? You're the _wunderkind_, House said it himself. You're the one with all the answers. Enlighten us."

Jason knew better than to expect help from either Chase or House. This was his problem to deal with. "Why not just give your answers and we'll go from there?"

"So you can shoot them down and show off your superior intellect? No thanks." Wayne polished off his doughnut and took a large swallow of coffee. "Go for it, genius."

"Stop it," Steinman snapped. "You're being childish."

"Hey Goldman, your girlfriend's defending you," Wayne said, and laughed when Steinman blushed. Norton sighed.

"Can we get back to the patient?"

"Ass-kisser," Wayne said. Jason sat up a little straighter. Enough was enough.

"It seems to me either you have a massive inferiority complex or a really teeny-tiny dick," he said with deliberate calm. "Stop slapping at everyone. It makes you look stupid and childish, and you aren't stupid at least."

Silence fell. Wayne stared at him as he went red. Steinman and Norton looked anywhere but at Jason and Wayne. Chase and House just sat there and watched all of them, as if they were amoebae under a microscope lens. Jason hung onto his temper with an effort.

"Since you say you want to know what I think, I'll tell you," he said in what he hoped was a reasonable tone of voice. "It seems to me there are two things going on here, maybe more but two for sure, in my opinion. But we need some tests re-done and then we should take a fresh look at the medical history for ourselves with the new results in hand." He stacked the reports together and stuffed them back into the folder, then flipped it shut and set it aside. "There you go. That's not genius, it's just observation and speculation that hasn't been proven by anything yet, and that's what we're paid to do. So we should start working on finding out what's going on, instead of sniping at each other."

Another silence dropped into the room. After a few moments Jason got up, took his mug and went to the kitchen to get more coffee. He'd just opened the sugar canister when House said "You shouldn't let breaking up with your girlfriend affect your disposition at work. Sets a bad example for the peons."

Jason dumped a spoonful of sugar into the black depths. "They're not peons. They're colleagues."

"Yeeeeeaaaaah, and I'm not a benevolent, generous and understanding dictator pretending to let Chase run the show." House dumped the contents of his mug into the sink and came over to claim the coffeepot. "You're gonna be top dog here eventually and everyone knows it. That's why Wayne's at the end of his chain, snarling and lunging." He raised his brows. "Hey, not a bad metaphor if I say so myself."

"Whether I'll be top dog or not, I'm part of the team," Jason said. House shook his head and dumped creamer into his coffee.

"You could give Cameron lessons in idealism."

"Do you really expect me to work with that kind of mindset?" Jason said. His exasperation edged into real anger. "You hired us to give you new points of view. That's what I'm trying to do. Right now I really don't give a shit about whether or not I'll take over, it's irrelevant."

"And there's your mistake," House said. "I've just told you you will. You should be planning accordingly."

Jason stirred his coffee. "And what should I be doing? Picking out colors and looking at carpet swatches?"

"If that's what rows your boat. It's the people who'll be standing on the carpet and licking tasty new paint off the walls that I'm concerned with. There's a good chance the team here now will stick around for a few years, until either they decide to leave, or Chase or I get tired of their shit and kick them back out into the storms of life. But here's how it works: they tell other people with resumes tucked under their arms about what it's like to work here." House dug a heaping teaspoon of sugar from the canister and aimed it in the general direction of his coffee. "If you assume Junior Swamp Scout leader status now in your den group, paired with your natural modesty and humble attitude, you'll get all kinds of good word of mouth." House paused. "That sounds so dirty."

"Mom always said you had an oral fixation." At House's sharp glance Jason rolled his eyes. "Kidding, okay? Just kidding. You know she doesn't talk about things." He picked up his cup. "I'll—I'll think about it."

"Don't think too long. If you don't make a grab for power someone else will, and his surname starts with a Wayne," House said. "Then you can go back to moping over losing your best friend with benefits."

"She's not—"

"Too bad she had other ideas." House added another pile of sugar to his coffee and gave it a token stir. "Inconvenient when women get these nonsensical notions about love and marriage and forever. Kinda messes with free sex and hot meals."

"Hypocrite," Jason snapped. That ache in his chest was back. "You didn't have a problem marrying Roz."

"We made a bargain. So far it's worked out, more or less. That's because we did our best to make our intentions clear from the start." House stared at him, his vivid gaze diamond-sharp. "You owe Faust an apology."

"I apologized when we talked."

"A real one, then. She's worth that much." House turned away. "What would you say to her mother?"

Jason winced. He waited until the older man had left the kitchen; then he followed, and tried not to think about what House had said.

The others had talked about them of course; the uncomfortable lull as he and House entered the room was proof of that. Wayne glared at Jason, but he was clearly nervous. Jason ignored him and set his cup on the table, opened the next file, and began to read. After a moment everyone else did too.

The rest of the differential was uneventful. Chase chose Jason's case, along with two others. "Jason, you'll make the run to Syracuse for the airport pickup. Call the patients and try to get things scheduled so you can get them in one trip, but it might not be possible."

Jason nodded, already resigned to the battle between clinic hours and work at Lou's. He rose with the others and left the conference room, aware of House's gaze, and made his way to the all-purpose office the fellows used in turn. He sat down to make the calls and was on the second one when Wayne came in and closed the door behind him. He stood there glowering at Jason, but he waited until the call was done before he spoke.

"You told House about my ER visit while you were in the kitchen with him."

Jason paused before he reached for the next file. "No, I didn't."

"I know you did. Should've hung onto that information for a while, it's great blackmail."

Jason blinked, surprised. "Are you _serious_? This isn't a hundred years ago or something. You get migraines. So what? About the worst thing that would happen here is someone would bitch you out for not taking care of business, otherwise what possible difference does it make?"

Wayne's glare lost some of its potency. "You're full of it."

"The only way I'd ever break doctor-patient confidentiality is if I thought your problem was life-threatening. It's on you to say something to House or Chase." Jason flipped open the third file. "I'm trying to get these damn calls done, if you don't mind."

"You think you own this place because you're the boss's little pet. Maybe I want to take on running things once House finally kicks Chase out and retires." Wayne folded his arms. "I'd varnish your ass."

Somehow that statement struck Jason as funny. He looked down at the file and fought not to let his amusement show. "V-varnish," he said. The laugh snorted out of him before he could stop it. "Shellac or m-marine?"

Wayne looked at Jason as if he'd lost his mind. After a few moments his lips twitched. "Shellac," he said with reluctance. "I couldn't think of the word."

"You need two coats of that stuff," Jason said. The mental image set him off. After a moment Wayne straightened and left the office. It felt good to laugh about something, though Jason knew most of it came from being overtired. Eventually he wound down enough to get back to business. He wiped his eyes, squinted at the file, and called the third patient.

Two hours later he'd managed to get everyone to show up at the airport at least on the same date, but he'd spend the entire afternoon in Syracuse while he waited for flights, with travel time on either side. That meant someone would have to cover his clinic hours and the start of his shift at Lou's. He rested his chin on his fist and tried to solve the problem, but ideas slid away from him as if they'd been greased. Finally he gave up and glanced at his link. He had another hour at the practice to work with the others on what labs and tests they should set up, then it was his afternoon at the clinic before his shift at Lou's started. For a moment the mountain of work seemed too high to scale. He closed his eyes and began to sort it into blocks of time to reduce the sheer size of the pile . . .

"Hey." Someone shook his shoulder gently. When he opened his eyes it was to find Steinman in front of him. She wore an expression of concern. "You look like you haven't slept in days."

"I'm fine," he said, and gathered the files before he got to his feet. "Let's get started on the redo list."

Steinman didn't move. "You're working too hard. You're still putting in hours at the pizza place, aren't you?"

"Yes. I'm fine," Jason said again, and eased past her to the door.

For the entire time they were in the conference room he felt Steinman's sidelong glances at him. He ignored her and did his best to focus on the task at hand. He knew he'd have to grab a power nap somewhere along the way, though; it took an enormous amount of willpower to keep his focus, and a familiar sense of fatigue intruded on his thoughts constantly.

He grabbed a quick lunch before he headed over to the clinic. The food woke him up a bit, but it didn't last long. He parked Minnie in the shaded back lot and trudged to the back entrance, put in his code and entered the building. It was fairly quiet, though he could hear a young child crying somewhere near the emergency bay. With a sigh he headed to the lockers, to stop short as Wayne met him in the doorway. They stood there face to face for a moment.

"You read the schedule wrong. It's my afternoon," Jason said.

"Don't look a gift horse in the mouth," Wayne said finally. His tone warned Jason not to pursue the subject. Jason just nodded and backed out of the doorway to let Wayne go by. As the other man passed him he said

"You shoot pool?"

Wayne paused. "Yeah, sometimes. Why?" His suspicion was palpable.

"A few of us get together on Saturday nights now and then. They have a good table at the bar in the village. Loser buys a round." Jason knew Jay would thank him for a new victim to fleece, but that was a secondary benefit. Wayne eyed him, then gave a reluctant nod.

"Okay, you're on."

Jason said nothing more. He left the building, climbed into Minnie and let the old truck drive him home as he stared out the window at familiar scenery and tried not to fall asleep.

The house was quiet; Mom was off at work with patients, and Dad was probably in the barn to practice. Jason thought of his sax, neglected for several months now. Once his schedule let up a bit, he'd start rehearsals with the band again. They had a gig before the fireworks on July fourth . . . He paused, startled at the realization that summer was well under way. When had that happened? It seemed like yesterday he'd come home worried and alone . . .

With a yawn he made his way to his bedroom, lay down on the unmade bed, set his alarm, and pulled the blinds.

Jason woke to the sound of Mom in the kitchen. It was too early for supper; undoubtedly she had some other project started, probably a batch of jam; the last of the strawberries had arrived at the farmers market today, more than likely . . . He sat up, ran a hand over his hair, and reached out to open the blinds. The afternoon beyond his window was beautiful, sunny with a clear blue sky and a mild breeze. He watched the leaves rustle and dance, remembered other times when he'd done the same thing. After a time he picked up his link and made a call. It went to voicemail almost right away. He cleared his throat and left a message after the beep.

"Hey Mandy. I know you're working so don't worry about calling back right away. I just . . . I wanted to say I'm sorry. Sorry about . . . about letting you think we could be together when it was me being afraid to hurt you. You didn't deserve that, I should have been honest with you. Anyway . . . I just wanted you to know that. Don't work too hard, okay? Take care of yourself. Talk to you soon."

Jason ended the call and stared down at the link for a few moments. He had a couple of hours before he needed to be at the restaurant. He stood, stretched a little, scratched the back of his head, and made his way to the kitchen to see if Mom needed his help.


	28. Chapter 28

_June 27th_

Roz settled into the big leather chair and smiled as it creaked a bit. She moved closer to the desk, adjusted the height of the seat, turned on the screen, and brought up her lesson plan for the first semester of school. There were four students on her tutoring schedule, all in basic mathematics, but at different levels of comprehension. She knew it was a sad state of affairs for her to actually enjoy the puzzle of how to present more or less the same information in different ways, with enough flexibility to accommodate rough patches. It was a far cry from the complex problems her husband dealt with, but then she wasn't in a competition with him anyway and never had been. She knew her place in the stratum of intellect, far below his though it might be, and was comfortable with it.

She was two hours into the first week's lessons when she heard the kitchen door open and bang shut, and the jingle of keys. A quick glance at the time showed Greg was home early, even by his standards; he'd barely spent an hour at the practice. Before she could get up to see if there was a problem, he came to the study doorway, paused, and leaned against the jamb. "Well, aren't you a good little girl," he said. The indulgent tone of his words made Roz raise a brow.

"Wrong on all counts," she said, and sat back. "You're home early."

"Work's boring." His gaze slid away from hers, a sure sign some sort of emotional disturbance had occurred. She'd get it out of him eventually, but a direct query would lead to nothing but evasions and provocation, she knew that from long acquaintance. He needed some redirection and entertainment to help lower the barriers.

"Well, I for one am glad you're here. You can help me later," she said, and got to her feet. Greg glared at her.

"I came home to put my feet up and watch tv, not do someone else's job."

"This isn't tough, not for you anyway." Roz moved to the doorway. Greg didn't budge. He looked down his nose at her, a challenge in his bright blue eyes.

"Going somewhere?"

"Yeah, to get a fresh cup of coffee and take a break. My brain is still struggling to wake up." She put a hand on his chest, smoothed a wrinkle in his shirt. "Join me?"

They ended up in the living room with a plate of buttered toast, a pot of Sarah's strawberry jam, and two large mugs of coffee. Greg put last night's baseball game on the livestream and took a big bite of toast. He glanced over at her. "Whassa prob'm?"

"Nothing," Roz said. "Slow synapses this morning." She sipped her coffee. Greg swallowed.

"No such thing. You slept like crap last night." He looked away. "Bad dreams."

Roz set down her mug and picked up her slice of toast. "Nope."

"You're renting words now. Just peachy."

"It wasn't a bad dream," Roz said. "I was restless. Sorry if I woke you."

He didn't answer her right away. Then he said quietly "You . . . you're feeling all right?"

She took a bite of toast. "Mmm-hmm."

"You've had trouble sleeping for the last couple of weeks."

Of course he'd notice that. When Roz could speak she said "I think it's menopause. There's nothing else bothering me aside from a hot flash now and then."

He chose another slice of toast, dug some jam out of the pot and licked it off the butter knife. "Make an appointment."

"I saw my doctor two weeks ago. Everything's fine," Roz said. She smiled a little. "I'm getting older too, _amante_." He didn't answer, just watched her with that wary, measured stare that told her he was genuinely concerned. She put down her toast. "What? Do you see something-"

"_No_," he snapped. "I just—" He stopped. Roz reached out and took his free hand in hers. She felt it tremble, and clasped his fingers with hers. He tensed, then slowly relaxed.

"Next time I wake up, I'm gonna make sure you do too. We can sit outside under the trees and star-gaze," she said. Greg looked down at their hands.

"'kay," he said quietly. Roz gave his hand a caress. She had an idea now of what bothered him.

"We aren't dead yet," she said. "Not for a good long while. Nothing to worry about."

"You can't know that."

"Maybe not, but we're here right now, breathing and everything. That's enough for me."

After a moment he chuckled. "Prove it."

She leaned in and gave him a kiss, let her tongue brush his bottom lip. He relaxed a little more under her touch. When the kiss ended she said "You taste like strawberries. I could get used to that."

"I'm not wearing lip gloss to make you happy," he said, but his eyes held a smile now. Roz kissed him again, a little buss at the corner of his mouth.

"But you'd look so cute in it," she whispered. He narrowed his gaze, but the smile stayed.

"You're flirting to distract me. I like it. Continue."

"Glad you approve," Roz said on a laugh, and took the mug from his hand, to set it on the coffee table with hers as well. Then she slid her arms around him and brought him close for another kiss, this one slow and sweet. When it was done she rested her head on his shoulder.

"Worrying about how long we've got makes no sense," she said. "All we really have is right now, this moment. You can't enjoy it if you're thinking about what might happen. But then you know that anyway." She rubbed his chest gently. "What's going on?"

Greg didn't answer for some time. He slipped his arm around her, his hand on her hip. "The team at the practice," he said. "I look at them, and they're . . . they're young. They've finally decompressed from residency and they're . . . full of life, potential. They have all of it ahead of them." He hesitated. "I want that with you." She could barely hear him.

"Yeah, I want it with you too," Roz said softly. "I see it at work as well, you know. My students, they're just starting out and they want so badly to be adults. There's no way to tell them it happens soon enough. When you're fourteen, you think the world doesn't know you and what you need, and if you were an adult you'd get what you want, but it doesn't work that way." She clasped his fingers in hers. "I think . . ."

"What?" Greg buried his nose in her hair and nuzzled her.

"We should fool around and take the rest of the day off."

It took him a while to answer. "Knew I married you for something besides your cooking."

They ended up in the bedroom. "Sex is more comfortable on a good mattress," Greg said. Roz agreed and took the plate and mugs into the kitchen, a necessity since Hellboy could never resist any cup with liquid in it. When she entered the bedroom it was to find her husband naked atop the bed. He lay on his side in what was clearly intended to be a come-hither pose, his vivid gaze fixed on her. She stood in the doorway for a moment to take in the view. He hadn't gained weight over the years, if anything he was a bit leaner; there were a few more wrinkles here and there, a definite sag to the pectorals, and a small pair of love handles on his hips. None of it mattered to her. She came forward, shed her tank top, jeans and underwear, and sat on the bed.

"Nice view," she said, and reached out to gently pinch his thigh. He moved away from her.

"You're just saying that to get some of this."

"You bet I am, buster. But then you're the one who put it out there to tempt me. It worked, so don't complain." She lay down and faced him. He reached over, cupped her breast, and she smiled.

"What?" His thumb brushed her nipple.

"Such a tit man," she said, amused. "Too bad I don't have much to offer."

He didn't answer her. Instead he moved closer, bent his head and began to suckle her. She gasped softly as he moved from one breast to the other. His hands slid down to her hips, kneaded them gently.

The pace was slower now than it used to be, but Roz didn't mind that in the least. It felt good to explore and touch, enjoy the warmth of skin on skin, listen to their breaths and sighs as they moved together, and took pleasure from their mutual efforts. Greg's quiet groan at the end was as much reward as her own climax. They lay in each other's arms for a long time afterward, and she savored the feel of his lean body as he relaxed in her hold. She drifted into sleep, aware of Greg's slow, even breathing, and the lessened tremor in his hands.

When she woke it was to find Hellboy next to her and Greg gone. The cat patted her cheek, his green-gold eyes bright. Roz yawned and smiled a little when she heard music from the living room. "Yeah, I'll get you a snack, you scammer," she said, and twiddled his ears a bit before she got up and began to put on her clothes.

She left the Heebster in the kitchen as he devoured some canned food, and entered the living room. Greg sat at the piano, head bowed a bit as his lean, clever fingers moved over the keys. He played the piece he'd written for her, tender and lyrical, a little sad but beautiful; she still felt the shock of astonishment that anyone would write something so amazing just for her.

At Roz's approach Greg looked up, and moved over a bit to make room for her on the bench. She sat next to him and watched him play, waited until he was done before she spoke. "Let's order some pizza and watch the game tonight."

"We were gonna do that anyway." Greg played a rolling chord. "Nooky's taken care of and we both got a nap. Let's stay up late and watch a movie after the game."

"Okay." Roz smiled when she said it. Greg slid a sidelong glance at her.

"First one to fall asleep has to cook breakfast."

"Done. Remember to thaw the sausages out before you put them in the pan this time."

"Oho, think you're gonna win, do you? Cheeky little minx." Roz laughed.

"Play some more," she said, and listened as Greg's music, their music, filled their home.

'_Love Ballade,' Oscar Peterson_


	29. epilogue

_July 4th_

It's a beautiful day in the neighborhood; Mister Rogers would be proud of the abundant sunshine outside, the bright blue skies with a few puffy white clouds above the treetops. Greg squints at the bucolic scene and tries to reconcile himself to the festivities ahead. They'll be off to the picnic later on, along with the Goldmans and Mandy Faust. One big happy family . . . the very idea gives him hives.

"Drink some coffee, you'll feel better," Roz says. She sits opposite him at the harvest table with a mug in her hands, and watches him with those green eyes of hers. "We don't have to be anywhere for a while. That'll give you some time to wake up."

"This whole day is fucking pointless," he grouses.

"You say that every time, but you end up enjoying yourself anyway." She sips her coffee. "Sarah made muffins."

His interest perks up a bit. "What kind?"

"Does it matter?" At his growl she laughs. "Blueberry with white chocolate. She'll be over shortly. Drink your coffee and go clean up. She'll be here when you're done."

Eventually he takes a last swallow of lukewarm coffee, leaves the mug on the table and shuffles off to the shower. The weather is about to change, so he feels stiff and sore today; there's a faint echo of an ache in his right thigh, enough of a reminder of the bad old days to make him nervous. Stupid, but still true. At least his hands aren't too bad. They shake, but he can get in and out of the shower, towel off and even take clothes out of drawers and not drop things. His fine motor skills are at about eighty percent of capacity, not too bad. He'll be able to play the keyboard for the concert before the fireworks later on this evening.

Slowly he gets dressed—tee shirt, boxers (a concession to old age; he doesn't like his boys chafed by rough denim, the equivalent of a cheese grater in his pants), jeans, trainers. Roz bought him a nice pair of leather flip-flops a couple of weeks ago, and dared him to wear them. So far he hasn't taken her up on the challenge, and he won't do it today. They keep the grass cut at the park, but it's still long enough for ticks and chiggers to be a problem and he'd rather not come down with Lyme or some other disease, thank you very much. He's had enough of chronic problems, more than his share. No point to tempt fate.

While he's there he makes a quick call to the practice. "Test results are in," Norton, the designated drone on duty, says. "Antiphospholipid syndrome, for sure. Now we just need to tease out the other problem."

"Get busy," Greg says, and hangs up, satisfied that at least one person's day will be utter crap. In a good cause, but you can't always get what you want.

When he emerges from the bedroom, he hears Sarah in the kitchen with Roz. She sounds awake and happy. Greg stands in the living room for a moment, and just listens. He's missed her presence more than he'll ever admit. Even with their friendship rapidly on the mend, he still thinks of the distance between them during their weeks apart. He can feel a little of it there yet; she doesn't quite trust him not to hurt her, and is afraid she'll hurt him in turn. Their old easiness hasn't returned in full. He can only hope it will eventually.

As Roz promised, there are indeed muffins when Greg enters the kitchen. "A new recipe," Sarah says, and offers him a smile. Despite her light tone she looks tired. Here's another female who hasn't slept through the night.

"Your hip's bothering you," he says. Her smile fades.

"Yeah, a little. It's the weather." She tilts her head a bit. "You're sore today yourself." It's not an accusation; there's warm concern in her voice now.

"I'll live." He takes a muffin from the container, leans against the counter as he peels the paper case away, and breaks off a chunk. It's loaded with blueberries and little pockets of white chocolate, fragrant with vanilla, butter and brown sugar. He munches and barely stops himself from a yummy sound. "Needs salt," he says when he can speak. Sarah chuckles.

"I can always count on you for recipe advice." She steals a bite from his muffin.

"Hey!" He gives her an indignant glare as she pops the chunk into her mouth and licks her fingers.

"Yeah, could use a little salt," she says, and flashes him a brief grin. Greg rolls his eyes as Roz takes the last piece of muffin, chews it slowly.

"_I_ think it needs more testing," she says, all innocence, and takes another muffin from the container.

"That's your story, you stick to it," Sarah says on a laugh, and puts the container on the counter. "We'll be ready to leave in an hour or so, Jason's still waking up." She glances at Greg, her sea-green eyes bright with amusement and affection. "Save some room for lunch."

Sure enough, just as Roz packs the last item in their basket not quite an hour later, Greg catches a glimpse of the Goldmans as they emerge from the back door of their home. Gene and Jason carry coolers and chairs to put in Minnie Lou's flatbed, while Sarah climbs into the cab. She has her walking stick with her, something she doesn't use often. Greg frowns a little at the sight. He doesn't like the reminder of her fragility. Somehow or other, even though she's younger than he is, he's come to see her as something of a parent—a friend, yes, but also a foster mother, more of a real mom than Blythe ever wanted to be . . . He thinks of John's funeral, remembers the roil of anger, confusion, and pain at the idea of his father gone, thinks too of Hawkeye's memorial, and pushes the memories away. They're for another time, not now. Sarah limps a little but she's whole and healthy otherwise, he's made sure of that.

"If you really don't want to do this we don't have to," Roz says. Greg looks down at her.

"I think you say that every other year." He glances out the window again. "The band's playing before the big show tonight. Have to go."

"We could stay home, grill some hamburgers. You don't need to be there until set-up and sound check." It's an honest offer, but he hears the unconscious wistfulness. His wife enjoys these outings. Over the years she's developed friendships with some of the students she teaches, and their parents. She likes to socialize now and then, something he's never learned to do outside of the small circle of people he trusts. Still, he owes her.

"If you don't shut up we'll be late," he says, and takes the basket.

The drive to the park is uneventful, if slower than usual. There are a good number of people on the road, many of whom appear headed in the same direction. The fireworks are a popular feature for summer celebrations here, something Greg has never really understood, but then it's still a small town, and entertainments are relatively hard to come by within village limits.

They reach the parking field and are waved into a spot near the trees by a bored-looking youth in an orange vest. Once Barbarella rests comfortably in the shade, they find a place to set up next to the Goldmans, as they do every year. The Chases are gone—off to the shore, the traitors—and his fellows are as well, as is their prerogative. The usual rituals are observed: blankets and pillows spread, chairs unfolded and placed in the best spots, coolers set out. Greg commandeers a seat, sits down and grabs a cold beer. He pops the top as Gene puts a lawn chair next to his.

"Sound check at seven," he says. "We need to set up at six-thirty."

Greg nods, and Gene goes off to move things around and joke with Roz as they head to the barbecue pit, both of them drawn to the smell of smoke and burnt fat like moths to a hot flame. Sarah claims the chair next to Greg. She uses the walking stick to ease herself into place, and leans back with a quiet sigh.

"When the hell are you gonna get that hip replaced?" he wants to know.

"Aw jeez," she says with eyes closed. "How about I get a day off from people pestering me?"

"I didn't sign any contracts. It's stupid to live in pain when you don't have to," he snaps, distressed and unwilling to admit it.

"I'm working on getting it taken care of," Sarah says. "I wouldn't lie to you because you'll find out and make my life a living hell. Okay? Can we please not talk about this now? It's a holiday. We're supposed to be having fun."

"Keep your delusions to yourself. Who's doing the surgery?"

"I don't know yet."

Greg watches her. She doesn't say anything more. "You should have had this dealt with years ago," he says, unable to stop the words. After a moment Sarah opens her eyes and turns her head. He expects anger and annoyance. Instead she gives him a slow smile.

"Thanks," she says softly. Greg snorts and looks away.

"For what? Pointing out the truth? Just because you're a martyr . . ." He trails the bait in the hope she'll take it and keep him entertained with a good barney, even if that's a dangerous path to tread right now.

"Nice try." Her voice is full of laughter. "Drink your beer and tell me how things are going with Jason at the practice."

"Oh great, now you want me to get in trouble with Goldman's mom."

She does laugh this time, that full-out sweet sound he hasn't heard in a long time. Some little knotted place deep inside him loosens just a bit, even as he understands this is payback for his nagging. Actually that's a good sign. Maybe she's not as wary as he thought.

"Aside from the fact you're workin' him like a hired hand on a dirt farm, he seems to be doing all right."

"Not my fault he's a man of his word. That's what he gets for being honorable." Greg takes a long swallow of cold beer and savors the clean, bitter taste of malt and hops.

"David's found someone to take his place in a couple of weeks. One of the young guys in the vocational unit graduated this past June. He's looking for a permanent job here."

Of course Greg knows all this. He was the one who dug through the rosters, found the one kid who was a likely candidate, and put a flea in his ear. "He's a loser."

"You sent him to David, so don't bother trying to lie about it." Sarah sips some iced tea. "Nice bit of research."

"Your adopted spawn's travails mean nothing to me," Greg says.

"Uh huh." Sarah reaches out, gives his arm a gentle pat. "Thanks."

They sit in companionable silence for a while and watch everyone else gather in little clusters of talk and laughter, to break up and re-form as new people come in. Little kids run all over the place as they usually do, full of energy and noise, curiosity and silliness. It's all so normal and cute Greg wants to vomit, but then he chose to live here years ago, it's not the fault of the local populace that they're average clueless humans.

"Seriously, who's gonna do the surgery?" he asks after a while.

Sarah sighs. "You aren't gonna stop buggin' me, are you?" She tucks a curl behind her ear. "Gene wants me to go to Rothman in Philadelphia. Beth Freeman does good work."

"Long trip," he says after a moment's silence. "You'd be in rehab an extra week just to get you through the drive back. And you'd have to stay overnight somewhere." He can check the link later for orthos in New York state.

"I'm still thinking about it, and before you start looking up surgeons here and twisting their arms with some blackmail scheme—"

"_Moi?_" he says, and puts plenty of hurt in his plaintive tone.

"—let me re-emphasize the 'still looking' section of that sentence. Nothing's been decided yet. Okay? There's no need to go into overdrive. Anyway . . ." She glances over at him. "Anyway, if I need help I'll ask you, you have my word. I trust your judgment."

Now that is a pretty compliment, and a sincere one too. Greg feels an absurd pleasure in it. "Sure, you say that now," he says, and Sarah laughs again just as Gene and Roz come back. They reek of smoke and bear platters of grilled hamburgers and hot dogs.

There's a short session of happy confusion while everyone fills up their plates and finds a place to sit. Jason and Mandy show up about halfway through this procedure. It's quite plain the air has been cleared to some extent; Mandy's cried but she doesn't look distressed, just resigned, and Jason wears the blank, impassive expression he uses when he wants to keep his emotions private. Greg is about to comment on this situation when Roz puts her hand on his. She doesn't grip or grab him, but the intent is more than clear. Then she takes it away. It's an old signal, one she's used on rare occasions: _watch what you say_. Normally he'd consider this unwarranted interference, someone who wants him to 'behave', that word Blythe used at least a dozen times a day during his childhood. Roz is different. This is not about good manners or political correctness. So he keeps his observations to himself, and just observes as the two young people sit side by side in silence as the picnic lunch begins.

Of course this is an enormous spread, as always: burgers, hot dogs, barbecued chicken, potato salad, fruit salad, deviled eggs, cornbread, baked beans, chips, you name it, it's here. Greg piles his plate and enjoys the stark beauty of a juicy seared burger and roasted onions on a grilled bun, accompanied by a fresh beer, taste delights of which he never tires. He'll probably need antacids later, his digestive system is just as old and semi-functional as the rest of him, but that's a small price he's happy to pay. Roz sits on his left and enjoys some potato salad as she, Sarah and Mandy talk back and forth. They don't patronize the younger woman or comfort her in an overt way, and yet Mandy slowly regains a bit of her usual lively manner. The simple act of acceptance and understanding sometimes has healing properties far beyond any physician's scope.

Jason is a tougher nut to crack. He sits cross-legged on the blanket with a beer in hand and a plate of food he hasn't touched and listens to the women talk. He looks tired and remote, his dark hair ruffled, as if he's run his fingers through it—a nervous habit he's picked up from both parents. As he sips his beer Gene says "Why don't you go home a little later and pick up your sax? You know all the charts on the list tonight."

Jason looks down at the bottle in his hand. "Haven't played for a while."

"Yeah, it's been a whole month for the rest of us too." Gene nudges Jason with his foot. "Humor your old man."

Jason nods and says nothing more, but after a few moments he picks up his plate and starts to eat.

There's the usual lull after they stuff themselves. Greg stretches out on the blanket with a pillow tucked behind his head, his wife's slender body cradled against his. It's a warm day but not uncomfortable; he looks at the sky through the branches of the tree overhead, with clouds drifting by.

"It's not gonna rain till late," Roz says.

"So now you're psychic."

"I can hear you calculating probabilities. I checked the forecast. Thunderstorms after midnight. Everyone will be home setting off illegal fireworks and getting even more drunk by then, so who cares." She takes his hand in hers and doesn't say anything else. Eventually he slides into a pleasant doze, aided by her touch and a full belly.

They get two hours to relax and digest lunch before Rick stops by. "Pickup game in fifteen minutes," he says, and squints down at Greg. "You in?"

"Yes," Roz says before Greg can answer. Rick nods and looks pleased. Greg is most definitely _not_ pleased.

"It's great that you think I have godlike powers, but making executive decisions based on personal delusions doesn't thrill me," he snaps. Roz sits up to look down at him.

"I know you're a little sore today, but since when has that ever stopped you from doing something you enjoy?" She narrows her eyes. "Or maybe you don't believe I can run bases anymore."

Oh, this is dangerous territory. "Of course I—"

"For your information I can run as far and as fast as I damn please. And you can still hit a ball out of the park. But if you want to sit on the sidelines and let other people win the game, fine."

Okay, that whole speech is suspiciously sanctimonious. Greg takes a closer look at Roz and sees she fizzes with silent laughter; her eyes are moss-green. "You evil little minx," he says, annoyed and vastly entertained.

"I take it that's a yes?"

Greg sighs. "One time at bat, that's it."

Roz nods. "Done."

So they end up on David's team of course, and it's the usual arrangement; Greg will bat and Roz will run for him.

They are third in the lineup and their team starts the inning. Gene is first at bat, to face Rick's oldest boy who's taken over from his old man as pitcher. The kid thinks he can throw sliders past Goldman, but he's wrong on the second try. Gene slams out a nice hit and makes it to second base, and now Jason's up, a substitute for Sarah. Greg remembers the younger man's first time in a pickup game years ago, all awkward, lanky limbs and nervousness. Things are different now. Jason waits for the pitch, and when it comes his way he sends it across the field in a fiery line drive that tells Greg all he needs to know about his protégé's state of mind. Gene makes it to third and Jason's on second.

There's a sizeable crowd now. Greg chooses a bat, steps up to the plate with Roz ready to go. He swings the bat around his shoulders a bit to loosen up, hears the sore spots mutter and grumble in his head. He'll pay for this tomorrow to some extent, especially if the weather is stormy. But then he can extort a massage and a hot, steamy shower out of his wife too, maybe even lay a nice guilt trip on her when he has to take a day off . . . The thought makes him smile just a little. He brings up the bat and steadies for the first pitch. The kid sizes him up and smirks. Greg knows without even having to look that it'll be a knuckleball. Sure enough, the pitch dives right past him into the strike zone. The pitcher sends him a contemptuous look, reminiscent of Rick's original opinion of Greg, before the wind-up and delivery of the next pitch. This time Greg's ready for it. Bat and ball connect, but not in a hard hit; he checks his swing so the ball dribbles away from him. Roz takes off down the first base line while Gene comes thundering in for the first run. Both the pitcher and infielders are scrambling over themselves to pick up the ball as the crowd cheers and yells encouragement to both sides. By the time the ball's back in play, Jason's scored a run and Roz is safe at second.

She eventually scores a run as well, and comes to Greg sweaty and dirty but full of smug satisfaction. "Told you," she says, "told you it would be worth it," and kisses him in full view of everyone else. Greg returns the kiss, aware his heart pumps, blood sings in his veins, his muscles sore but a-tingle in the best of ways, and his hands barely shake at all. It's good to be alive.

He gets cleaned up in the old pumphouse, and goes to the stage to help set up for the rehearsal and sound check. The smell of the barbecue pit drifts across the field, mingled with the sound of the occasional cheer from the ball game, which is in its last inning. It won't be too much longer before everyone gathers for a second round of food, and then the concert and fireworks.

Gene and Jason are in the final stages of placement and plug-ins, and Jay checks the amps and instruments. As Greg climbs the steps Gene says "Nice fake out. They were expecting you to hit it out of the park."

"So why didn't you?" Jason says, and sets his sax case next to a chair. "People are gonna think you can't do it anymore."

"Your dad said it. Everyone expected a big line drive." Greg takes the cover off the keyboard. "I don't do what people expect me to, I do what needs to be done."

"Strategy over ego," Jason says. He glances at Greg as he moves a mike.

"If you want to win." Greg flips the switch, sets it to electric piano mode, and checks the sound level as Singh shows up, out of breath but beaming.

"Nice work on the playing field," he tells them. "You're all wasted on baseball though. Come to the dark side and play cricket at our house sometime."

Once everyone's set up they run through the opening song, get the levels adjusted. Greg agrees to keep watch on the equipment. Why not? He's got a comfortable chair. "Only if I get a cold beer," he says.

Five minutes later Roz shows up with the beer as well as a plate of food. She offers both and sits next to him and munches some chips. "Ready to play tonight?"

"Considering the alcohol intake of the crowd, don't think it really matters." He bites into a snappy hot dog and enjoys the crunch of the half-carbonized crust.

"So play for yourselves, and your family." She polishes off a chip. "We'll enjoy it."

"How'd you get so smart?"

Roz flashes a smile at him. "Always have been."

They share the beer and she steals a bite of his burger, while they indulge in desultory talk of inconsequential things. The afternoon advances as long shadows begin their stealthy move across the grass, and clouds gather; the air grows more sultry.

"It's gonna rain," Greg says.

"After midnight," Roz counters with absolute confidence. "You'll see."

It isn't too much longer before people begin to congregate on the field in front of the stage. The other band members show up and get ready to play. There's a pleasant buzz of excitement and anticipation; little kids run around with the modern equivalent of sparklers, bright buzzy lights on a stick inside a biodegradable transparent sphere. Greg remembers the perils of the old-fashioned kind, and the incredulous delight of real fire and explosives. He'd burned his fingers and gotten sparks on his skin, and loved every moment.

Soon enough it's the appointed time. Gene glances at Greg, who nods and begins a quiet riff on the piano. "Is everybody ready?" Gene intones, and the crowd gives an enthusiastic cheer. "Ladies and gentlemen, welcome to our July fourth celebration!"

They start off with 'America the Beautiful', done Ray Charles style. That's for the veterans in the crowd, something Gene requested. He sings it simple and slow, and the feeling in his words shines through.

Of course the next song has to be 'U.S. Blues', another favorite of the vets, who get the sarcasm even if no one else does. Greg doubts half the people in the crowd know the Grateful Dead from the Beach Boys, but that's their loss.

After that opening they wait until Sarah joins them onstage, then play Bruce Springsteen's 'American Land', a barn-burner of a song that has everyone up to dance. Singh pounds out the rhythm to a roar of approval as Sarah moves to the mike. Of course she's the one to sing it in her sweet, Irish-inflected voice, and she whoops it up in true Celtic style. It's her family's story, and she knows how to tell it.

_there's diamonds in the sidewalk_

_there's gutters lined in song_

_dear I hear that beer flows _

_through the faucets all night long_

_there's treasure for the taking_

_for any hard working man_

_who will make his home in the American land_

They make her sing it again, and the whole place on their feet by the end.

Next up is 'Red Solo Cup'. Jay does the spoken-word lyrics, as the entire band chimes in on the chorus. At the end they lift up the cups in question and get a huge ovation as many in the crowd do the same.

'Saturday in the Park' is a natural choice for the list, since it's a Saturday as well as the Fourth. It also gives Jason a chance to shine, since he's taken the place of the horn section. While he's still warmed up they slide right into 'Born To Run,' always a popular choice with the audience. Jason does full justice to Clarence's big sax solo, and Gene does a credible Springsteen imitation. Greg won't admit he loves that precipitous, climactic slide down the scale into the final verse.

The last song is offered up to balance out the New Jersey influence: 'New York State of Mind'. Greg plays the initial piano riff, puts lots of soul into it, and is a little surprised to find it's not a fake, he really feels it. In some way he can't fathom, this backwater village has become home, or what comes closest to it for someone like him. His family is here, his work, and now he's learned, his heart too. Maybe it's not a bad thing, after all.

_it comes down to reality_

_and it's fine with me 'cause I've let it slide_

_don't care if it's Chinatown or on Riverside_

_I don't have any reasons_

_I've left them all behind_

_I'm in a New York state of mind_

The audience demands an encore and they get it, with a beautiful solo from Jason, who plays like he's practiced eight hours a day. The skill and raw emotion in the notes send chills up Greg's back.

When the song's done they play the national anthem, and vacate the stage—well, everyone but Jason, who's agreed to stay with the equipment. As he leaves Greg sees Mandy climb up the steps on the other side and take a seat next to Goldman. They'll watch the fireworks together from here.

Roz waits for him, along with Sarah and Chitra Singh. He settles on the blanket with her, brings her close. Gene and Sandesh are not too far behind. Soon everyone is paired up and ready for the big finale. It's nearly time now, as the last rays of sun fade from the edge of the mountains.

The first boom always takes everyone by surprise. The night sky fills with sudden fire, offers glimpses of rapturous, upturned faces in shades of flickering gold, red, green. Roz moves closer to Greg, slips her arm around him, rests her head on his shoulder as they watch the show overhead. The world narrows to the two of them and the brilliant splashes of sparks that cascade through the velvet darkness, a celebration of light, and life.

Eventually it all comes to an end. Everything is packed up amid promises to meet for coffee, for dinner, for a movie; a chorus of goodbyes, and they're on their way home, and the Goldmans lead the way.

"I'm gonna watch the game," Greg says when they get home. Roz nods as she starts to unpack the cooler.

"I'll join you."

When she comes into the living room, she has two bowls of ice cream. They're tin roofs the way he likes them, with salted redskin peanuts and plenty of chocolate sauce. She settles in next to him and offers a bowl. They watch the game together, and when she steals a peanut he takes a spoonful of ice cream in retaliation, just to hear her soft laugh.

It's late when they go to bed, tired but full of the day's events. Hellboy follows them in, jumps up on the foot of the bed, and claims his spot. It's a warm night, but the box fan keeps enough air on the move to make it comfortable. Greg relaxes into the sheets with a sigh, turns toward Roz and drapes an arm over her hip. She takes his hand in hers, holds it with gentle firmness. He feels her drift into sleep as her fingers relax and her breath deepens. He follows her quickly.

When he wakes in the night, her warm, slender body is spooned close to his, secure and comforting. Slowly he falls asleep once more to the sound of rain as it falls on soft grass.

'_America the Beautiful', Ray Charles_

'_U.S. Blues', The Grateful Dead_

'_American Land', Bruce Springsteen and the E Street Band_

'_Red Solo Cup', Toby Keith_

'_Saturday in the Park,' Chicago_

'_Born To Run,' Bruce Springsteen and the E Street Band_

'_New York State of Mind,' Billy Joel_


End file.
